Mr Monk Gets Sick
by Amymimi
Summary: Will Adrian's hospitalization be enough to bring Sharona back... for good? COMPLETE, now with a sequel posted!
1. Adrian Monk, Sick?

Note: I do not own Adrian Monk, Dr. Charles Kroger, Sharona Fleming, Captain Leland Stottlemeyer, AmbroseMonk,or any other character of the "Monk" series.

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The bright sunlight of dawn streamed through the blinds of Adrian Monk's bedroom, but he didn't stir from his position under the array of sheets and blankets. Eventually, though, the warmth of the light shining upon his face made him lift his hands in defense, becoming conscious as he batted the offending source of heat away.

As he took in his first waking breaths of morning, he became acutely aware of a pressure in his sinuses and an inability to take in air through his nose. He jolted to a seated position and hoarsely moaned the words he hated to even consider. "I'm… sick!

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After considering whether or not to even get out of bed, he decided that he must, for he had to use the restroom. It was a common morning routine and he had never digressed from it before. May as well not start to, either, even if I am unhealthy, he supposed, as he unsteadily made the short trek. He stopped in front of the mirror to examine himself, and was shocked by what he saw.

There were… bags under his eyes… and his nose was so… red, and swollen! He couldn't help but notice how terrible he looked. He turned on the taps, preparing to splash some of its coolness onto his tired-looking face. How was it humanly possible that he, Adrian Monk, could be sick? He was so careful to wipe his hands and avoid touching things and cover his mouth when walking amidst sick people! Maybe Sharona would know what he should do…. He then sighed with frustration and disappointment, realizing that she had been gone for almost half a year now, and she was never coming back to him.

After he rinsed his face off, the sickly look still remained, now compounded with a paleness that had cast itself across his face. How had he lived without her for so long? Now he was going to die, miserable and alone, and it was all her fault!

He opened the medicine cabinet up with a segment of toilet paper, so as not to leave a smudge mark on the glass, and examined the massive stock of OTC medications he had in his possession. There was Robitussin, NyQuil, DayQuil, Sudafed, and Vicks Vaporub for cold/flu relief and cough suppression; Advil, Tylenol, Aspirin, Aleve, and Motrin IB for pain relief; and Allegra, Claritin D, and Benadryl for antihistamines. Sharona had bought most of these for him, even though he had managed to avoid being sick… Until now…. Too many choices, he mused, grabbing the Robitussin and DayQuil and switching them around, since they were out of alphabetical order; he'd be there all day trying to decide. Scoffing to himself, he shut the cabinet and returned to his previous thoughts of how he could have possibly picked something up from somebody.

He'd been in the apartment for practically an entire five months, only leaving to buy groceries, or— well, that was about it, actually.He frowned at himself in the mirror, hating himself for feeling so lousy. Sharona left him with nothing; no number to call her or contact of her, or anything. He paced slowly back to the bedroom, slipping back under the covers once more.

Later on he'd eventually get up for the day… He held out his hands, preparing to count his fingers. First, he'd need to gargle with some hot salt water, and then vacuum the kitchen—and the bathroom—and bedroom—and living room—and the dining room… He needed to buy a new toothbrush as well…. He'd have to put the bed sheets in the laundry, as well as his pajamas; no use wallowing around in his own sick-germs….

Once he realized the sheer amount of work ahead of him, he sighed and sat back up, slipping out of bed once again. "I may as well just get up," he said to no one in particular. His entire head felt like a balloon full of wet socks, and he could feel the liquid in his nose dripping, making its way for the outside…

He almost touched it, to wipe it away, but reconsidered and dashed into the kitchen for a paper towel. "Going to have to buy some Kleenex as well," he muttered, disgusted with it all, after wiping his nose with the rough material. Although it was barely moistened, the detective tossed the balled-up paper towel in the trash can and washed his hands in the sink.

After washing his hands, he continued to stand in front of the sink, gazing out the window through the blinds at the clear blue morning sky. "How can it be so nice outside, when I feel like this?" He really should have been boiling some water at the time, for his salt water gurgle that he was going to try. I just feel so run down, I don't want to do anything, Adrian moped.

He shuffled over to the couch where he and Trudy used to always snuggle, and stared at the crooked coffee table for a minute or so, pondering on whether to clean the room or not. Well, the table was spotless, but he had just dusted and polished it yesterday….

The cordless phone sat on his desk, beckoning his attention. Sighing nasally, he walked over to it and picked up the receiver, examining it in his hand. Couldn't she at _least_ have left him a number to reach her? He turned on the phone with his pinky finger, hearing the dial tone, an unfamiliar sound in these silent past five months. The only people who had checked up on him in this period of time were Captain Leland Stottlemeyer, who had dutifully called at least once a week, his psychiatrist Dr. Kroger, and his brother Ambrose, who had called him once, a few days after Sharona's departure. It really had been a pleasant surprise to hear his brother's voice again, but he had been too depressed at that point to completely appreciate the company of his formerly estranged sibling. He reminisced about that phone call, all the while ignoring the operator's voice recording in the background, saying "If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and try again. If you need help, hang up and then dial your operator."

He had been at his desk, poring over the papers involving his wife's death, when the call had come. Immediately he had supposed it was Sharona, prepared to make an amends and return in a blaze of glory, but was a bit startled at hearing the unfamiliar male voice on the other end.

"Hello, Adrian. It's your brother… Ambrose," he had heard his brother say timidly, and it struck him speechless for about a minute or so, as he thought about the time they had last spoken on the phone.

"Oh, hello, Ambrose," he said, in the lightest-sounding voice he could muster in all his upset over the recent abandonment.

"I heard about what happened; I'm sorry, Adrian," Ambrose said, with such a sincere, heartfelt tone, that he felt his eyes watering.

"I'm doing… alright." The words sounded hollow and fake to him, and he had immediately regretted not telling his brother how he had been feeling. He had wiped his eyes and stood up to pace around the room, regretting the lie. Come to think of it, he still regretted it now….

"I-I… moved back into the house," his brother said cheerfully, attempting to change the subject. Ambrose had always been the more emotional of the two, holding onto his feelings for years and years and allowing for his hopes to rise at the thought of his father's return. Well… Adrian had held on to his feelings as well, but that was a different subject altogether…

"How did you do that? It was really charred from the fire." Changing the subject was alright, he had decided. Well, it took his mind off of Sharona….

"Well—I had various restoration companies audit the house and repair what they deemed hazardous. It—looks acceptable now. I had to throw almost all the newspapers out, though; they were all ruined, except for three dozen from 1985. Dad's going to really upset with me when he finds that I had to th—"

"I doubt it," Adrian said. "He'll never come back, just like Sharona will never come back." His emotions had gotten the better of him, and he had admitted his anguish over her departure. He had then felt stupid for bringing up such a dire subject with his brother, especially after mentioning it in the same sentence as their father. Ambrose had fallen silent, probably unsure of what to say to him. He was lost for words as well. After a long pause, they had exchanged awkward goodbyes and that was it. He was left alone with his thoughts once again, to wallow in his own misery for the next four and a half months…

Hearing a thump at the front door, he snapped out of his reverie and made his way to the front door to pick up the paper. Ever since the murder of his paperboy, the new kid (well, not too new anymore) always chucked the newspaper at his front door. He'd probably have to scrub the door off again, because sometimes he found that the black print rubbed off where it had hit.

The paper that morning was rather thick, and he opened the first section to find an article on yet another unsolved murder. Just like Trudy's murder, he thought, but this one will probably be solved in the next week. He laid the newspaper against the edge of his kitchen table and prepared to make himself some ginger tea. It was disturbing how exhausted he felt. He should have been vacuuming, not making tea…. Vacuuming always made him feel better.

He forgot about the paper and the tea, and went to the pantry to pull out the vacuum cleaner. It had always improved his attitude because of the white noise's calming effect, Dr. Kroger had said, but he supposed it had been because he knew all the dirt and germs were sucked inside a very small place, and they couldn't escape. He pulled up a chair and prepared to stand atop it to vacuum the ceiling. It had always been his habit, to vacuum from the highest point downwards, so no new dust accumulated from the disturbances of the hose on the ceiling and walls.

After ensuring that no food products or containers remained on the kitchen counter, he swept up every last particle of dirt from the ceiling and walls and made his way down to the crannies on the highest cupboards. Once he finished the kitchen, he felt an urge to continue cleaning, since he had the equipment out already.

The morning slipped away as Adrian vacuumed and dusted his apartment, repeating each room a couple of times to ensure that no detail was left out and that every surface had been swept. It was 1 pm when he finished up the job, and he felt even worse than he had in the morning. His head was now throbbing with a sinus headache, and his nose was running but still excruciatingly stuffed up. Little aches and pains popped up at every joint, and his throat had obtained an extreme dryness. Once the sneezes came on, he had returned to his bed with an unopened roll of toilet paper and had pulled the trash can to the bedside.

He considered sniffing Trudy's pillow for familiar comfort, but realized he couldn't smell a thing right now, so he lie on his back, staring at the swirls in the ceiling. He had to keep his mouth open to breathe, for the disagreeable substance in his nose prevented anything from passing through. It had been years since he'd been this miserable… It can't be much longer now, he mused. Soon I'll return to you, Trudy…

The ringing phone startled him to jolt up in bed and grab the receiver in one rapid motion. Apparently he had fallen asleep, which he had originally thought impossible. "Hello?" he asked in a gravelly, nasal voice.

"Is that you, Monk?" It was the captain, calling to check up on him. Maybe he knew that he was going to catch something, for he'd called him twice already this week. Well, it was still this week; wasn't it?

"Yeah, it's me, Captain," he responded, wiping his nose with the toilet paper.

"What's wrong?" Stottlemeyer said. "It sounds like you've got a cold."

"Oh, no," Monk replied hopelessly. "It's much worse than that."

"Did you take anything for it?" The captain knew that the former detective is quite the hypochondriac.

"Well—no." He tossed a ball of toilet paper in the trash can.

"Do you not have anything for it? I can run some over, if you need something. You really sound bad."

"Oh—that's not the case… It's just—Sharona bought me _too_ much—and I can't decide what to take." An unexpected sneeze cut him off before he could continue.

"What are your symptoms, then? I can tell ya what to take." Monk tried to smile, but felt a cough coming on. The captain really had become a good friend. When he had first returned to consultant work after Sharona came into his life, he found that Stottlemeyer had seemed irritated by his presence, even so much as to tell him right out that he didn't want him there. That had changed over the past couple of years, and it was one thing that he could be thankful for. Of course, now he was going to revert back to his old ways, before Sharona had ever set foot in his house. It would be as if the past few years didn't even exist, and he could turn into the hermit that his brother had already been for decades.

"Well—my nose is stuffed up… I've been sneezing, and I'm aching all over…. My throat is itchy, which'll probably progress to coughing soon. It's going to keep getting worse and wo—"

"Sounds like a cold to me, Monk. Do you have any DayQuil?"

The detective leaned heavily against the headboard, glancing in the direction of the bathroom, recalling earlier.

"Uhm…. Yes, yes, I do. But how is it possible that I could have caught—"

"Well, take some DayQuil then. It won't make you drowsy either." He paused. "_Everyone_ gets colds; it was just your time."

"It's all because _Sharona_ left," the detective scoffed. "Now my immune system is down, and I'm open to all kinds of horrible things. I've read all about what's going to happen—"

"It's not Sharona's fault; she's been gone now for months. Stop worrying about it, it's just a cold. You'll be fine in a few days. "

"A few _days_?" He felt the panic rising in his throat. "Why is it going to take that long? And yes, it _is_ her fault!"

"The cold will go away in a few days, but only if you take your medicine and rest. I have to get back to work now, but I'll call later on in the week," he grumbled into the receiver.

"Alright then. Thanks for calling, Captain," Monk sighed. In these past few months it had been hard to deal with a world almost totally devoid of human interaction.

Monk soon pushed the power button on the cordless phone, and all that could be heard afterwards was the ticking of the clock in the hallway. He looked around the room for a few moments, composing himself to actually take some medication for his cold. He really didn't think it was a cold. It felt like his whole body was shutting down.

He gulped down the gross-tasting syrup, and sat out in the kitchen to read the paper. There was an unsolved murder case on the front page, and a couple of mentioned ones on the following pages. All in all, he counted 15 unsolved murders referred to in some way. "Wow, I had no idea it was Monday," he muttered, noticing the print at the top of the page. "I'm delirious too."

He glanced over at the wall, where a line of pictures of Trudy was hanging, completely level, with precise even spaces between them. "I wish I could figure out who murdered you," he said to her black and white photograph. A determined look crossed his face. "And I'm going to find out, even if it takes me the rest of my life. I promise."

He thought of the office he had been renting downtown for years, containing all of Trudy's possessions. When Sharona had first begun helping him with bill-writing, she had mentioned it to him briefly but he had changed the subject immediately, and the subject had never been brought up again. It had been years since he'd set foot in that building; the sheer amount of memories that were stockpiled there were too much for him to bear at one time. The vast majority of stored items consisted of her own writings and sources for her job as a columnist for The Examiner. He would inspect them more closely in time, but for now his lack of new data stunted his efforts, and he felt ashamed of his own abilities.

Somehow he could not even make himself approach the building, for the mere thought of the outpouring of her knowledge that lay inside, neglected for almost a decade in the silence and dust of the building, made him regret stowing it away in the first place. But he hadn't neglected it, really; he just wouldn't have been able to breathe in a house knowing how much of the past would be there with him, representing a time gone forever.

He let the coughs commence, and they were dry and hoarse and painful. The cough syrup sat on the table next to him, and he picked it up to examine its label. "Isn't this supposed to be working?" he exclaimed, noting the side effects. "Nervousness, sleeplessness, dizziness," he spouted off, shaking his head with disgust. "Why did I take the captain's word for it without reading first?" He continued to stare at the label. "Oh, God!" he continued, "The expiration date is only six months away! It's probably gone bad!"

He spent the remainder of his evening in bed, leaning against propped up pillows against the headboard and watching television. Everything seemed so bland now, like it was fading from him over the course of a mere day. He set up a vaporizer in his room to clear his sinuses once he could fall asleep, but figured sleep would never come. The vaporizer had been sterilized thoroughly after its only usage, but he cleaned it out anyway. Eventually exhaustion overtook him, and he fell asleep, as the television softly glowed on his face throughout the night.


	2. A Visit from the Doctor

Two days passed and he wasn't improving. Things actually seemed to be getting worse. Now he had periods of chill with periods of intense sweating, and had to convince himself not to call the hospital about his condition. A constant headache persisted, and he coughed throughout the night, waking himself up on many occasions.

He had lain in bed most of the time, only arising to use the restroom or idly sip some tea or soup. Occasionally he had to emerge from the bed to arrange the covers to correspond to his rapidly fluctuating body temperature for the sake of comfort. His newspapers lay out on the doormat, for he had forgotten to collect them. The salt water gurgle he had done the day after the symptoms first appeared had made him gag, and he swore that he would never try that again.

Is this what dying is like? he mused, as he lay under the layers of blankets, teeth chattering. What could he have possibly done to deserve such abandonment? She didn't even care how he was coping, now that she left. All Sharona could think about was herself, and her good-for-nothing husband. It was hard enough losing Trudy, and now he would have to deal with dying alone.At least there was a happy ending, seeing Trudy again….

He hadn't felt so depressed since his wife's death, and his illness only made matters worse. "What day is it?" he mumbled to himself, switching to a football game with his remote control. It was definitely serious, what he had. He didn't even feel like cleaning, or eating, or… breathing….

The shrill ring abruptly stopped his thoughts. He reached for it instinctively yet woozily, causing the receiver to fall off the cradle and hang off the side of the nightstand. His keen ears picked up the sound of the male voice saying 'hello' questioningly on the other end, and he sighed. When was she going to call? _Ever_ again?

He sighed again as he pulled the receiver up by its cord, until he was able to lift it to ear-level.

"Hello," he mumbled solemnly.

"Adrian?" the voice said. It was Dr. Kroger. His psychiatrist had been calling him to check up on him a couple of times a week, but they had usually been very short conversations that were very easily forgotten.

"Yes, it's me."

"Are you alright; I heard a banging earlier. You don't sound so hot. What's wrong?" the psychiatrist asked.

"I—I don't know. I think I'm—I'm reaching the end…."

"What are you talking about, Adrian? Tell me what's wrong."

The detective coughed loudly several times, bringing up a gob of mucus into his throat. He had covered his mouth to prevent blasting out his doctor's ears, but now he was covering his mouth for a different reason: nausea had arisen. Before he could register just what the slimy object was, he impulsively swallowed it back down.

"Adrian? Are you there? Do you want me to come over there?"

He paused, considering. He really did miss having company, but he didn't want Dr. Kroger to acquire his illness.

"I'm here…." He swallowed a couple more times, to ensure the glob was truly gone. "Y-you can't come over; I don't want you to catch—whatever this is that I have…."

"It's alright, Adrian," the kindly doctor responded. "I have never actually known you to get sick before, so I'll take my risks."

"B-but… it's terrible!" Monk exclaimed hoarsely. "I won't let you come in here!"

"Now, you know that's not true. I'm sure that you'd enjoy some company."

"—I really don't want you to ge—"

"I just want to see how you are doing. You haven't been to a session in a few weeks, and I'd like to see you. Is that okay with you, Adrian?"

He was confused, unable to make a decision as to how to answer. He had been craving company for months, some smidgen of the attention he had had when married to Trudy, and when paired with Sharona. The women in his life he had come to depend on, and both of them had left him in their own ways. His male friends—well, if you could count Stottlemeyer—that was about it, and he regretted making more when he was still—decently normal. Dr. Kroger was being paid to be his friend, but it didn't matter at this point. He was desperate to talk to someone face-to-face, and his psychiatrist didn't seem worried about his illness.

"Alright…. That's fine…. But don't say I didn't warn you—"

The doctor chuckled. "I'll be okay, Adrian; I want to make sure that _you_ are."

They hung up shortly afterwards after making a meeting time of 2 pm, and the detective immediately realized the extent of what he had to do. He'd have to shave, and shower, and do laundry, and vacuum and dust and sterilize everything he'd touched. He glanced over at the alarm clock. It was noon. He'd never have time….

He shuffled into the bathroom, examining his face in the mirror. His lips were cracked and dry and had a slight bluish tint, and he immediately wondered why. Oh,God, I look like a corpse, he thought worriedly, running a hand across his stubbly cheek. He practically had a moustache from the lack of shaving. Apparently all those years of shaving twice a day had caused the hairs to grow in overdrive, because he had much more than a 5 o'clock shadow. Panic rose in his throat at the sight of his bluish lips, and he immediately turned to the bathtub and stepped in, fully clothed. He couldn't look at himself anymore; well, actually he _never_ could. He'd never get everything done before Kroger arrived if he stared at his face all day….

After removing his clothes and shutting his eyes to avoid seeing his own nudity, a routine practice of his, he turned on the tap and tested the water continually for a hint of warmth streaming through the pipes. Eventually it arrived, and he pulled the coral-colored shower curtain all the way over and the dial out to allow for the water to spout out of the showerhead.

It ended up being one of the shortest showers he had ever taken. He was done in 45 minutes, spending most of the time attempting to rub whatever substance was dyeing his lips off of them. He had become a bit lightheaded yet he had a pounding headache, and felt the intense urge to sit down. Feeling faint, he had plopped down in the bathtub and remained seated with eyes closed for about ten minutes, as the showerhead continued spurting water upon him. Somehow this irritant was easy to ignore, and his head was completely clear of all thoughts, for once. Nothing existed now but the dimness of the shower enclosure and the warmth cascading down, and he didn't even notice the small cobweb that had formed along the ceiling in the two-day neglect of its condition.

He emerged from the bathroom shortly afterwards, wearing a white t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants. He would have preferred something cooler, like boxers, but he didn't wear boxers so he had to deal with the sweatiness of the flannel on his legs. He had somehow forgotten to dry off completely, so it had been a difficult task trying to pull the clothes on over the dampness of his skin. His hair was matted to his head in tight curls, and he ignored it for the time being, because he could sense that his lips were still blue.

He then noticed what time it was, and realized he only had an hour to get the laundry done and the place sterilized. Neglecting to fix his hair and shave, he began to pull the sheets and covers off the bed, folding them into neat little squares that he deposited in the laundry basket. He then grabbed his pajama top from the bathroom and other clothes items that he had worn in the past three days and placed them in the basket as well.

This process had taken almost 40 minutes, just to gather up all of the laundry. When he finally put on his slippers and groggily made his way for the apartment laundry room, he realized the extent of his sickness. He was weak and listless; his head throbbed continually and he couldn't stop clearing his throat. And he could sense it; his lips were still blue!

It was too late to start the laundry now. Dr. Kroger would arrive in approximately ten minutes. He picked up the forgotten newspapers on his doormat and went back inside his apartment, placing the newspapers on the kitchen island and the filled basket on the other side of his bed so it was not in plain sight. He quickly wiped out the shower and the previously fogged-up mirror and saw that his hair was beginning to dry without having been combed first.

Couldn't he remember to do anything? He looked like hell. Maybe he'd just—not let Dr. Kroger in the house.Then the doctor would be safe, and wouldn't see what a slob he'd become. A sick, lazy, blue-lipped slob….

He combed his hair quickly and applied some deodorant since sweat seemed to be pouring from his body. He probably had a fever. He hoped and prayed that he wouldn't get nausea next….

There was a knock at the door. He began to approach it, and then decided to let Dr. Kroger stay out there, for he was most definitely contagious. However, this plan didn't work, because he had left his door unlocked after deciding he had no time to do his laundry. He watched in utter horror as the door opened and the psychiatrist stepped through, realizing the extent of what he had done. He had forgotten to lock the door….

"Hello, Adrian," Dr. Kroger said warmly. "Looks like you just got out of the shower."

"Uhm—yes, I did," the detective said, rubbing the back of his neck to remove the sticky feeling. For some reason he could feel his heartbeat pounding in his chest, like he had just finished the 800 meter dash, and another chill passed through him.

"When was the last time you shaved?" As the doctor walked down the hallway, approaching Monk, the detective retreated, leaning on the bathroom door for support.

"It was—uh—three days ago," he mumbled hoarsely, clearing his throat afterwards.

"How are you feeling, Adrian? Would you like to talk about it?" The smile that the doctor was giving him was too happy for his current mindset.

"Well—if you can't tell by looking at me—" he motioned to his unkempt face, and his choice of clothing, and attempted to smile.

The psychiatrist stood directly in front of him now, cornering him by the bathroom door. "Your lips are blue, Adrian; why are they blue? Did you eat som—"

Suddenly, the detective got on a coughing jag, and turned to face the wall as each cough hit him, agitating the mucous build-up in his throat. It was so disgusting, what the coughs were bringing up into his throat, that he dashed into the bathroom and spit the gobs up in the sink. Dr. Kroger was quite concerned by all of this and followed his patient into the bathroom, watching as the greenish substance washed down the sink drain, and Monk's frightened expression at seeing it.

"Adrian," he said, putting a hand on the man's heaving shoulder, "I think we need to get you to the hospital."

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The detective complied with his psychiatrist's request. His illness had gotten too horrible to bear, and it was nice to talk to someone again about his feelings. He sat in the passenger's seat in his damp white t-shirt and pajama pants, with a heavy jacket draped over his shoulders that Dr. Kroger had grabbed from his armoire while he was putting on his socks. He had slipped on the pair of tennis shoes he had gotten from Tonday Mawwaka, and recalled the race against Trevor McDowell that he had won, in which he had caught up with the fugitive murder suspect and tackled him on the beach. He'd probably never be able to do something like _that_ again.

"We're here, Adrian," Dr. Kroger commented, placing a hand on his knee, as they sat in the hospital outpatient parking lot. "Are you alright?"

He snapped out of his trance and glanced slowly about him. "Where are we?" he asked, unsure of his surroundings. He had apparently forgotten the meaning of the trip, and sat stiffly in the seat with his eyes closed, feeling light-headed.

"The hospital," was the reply. They pulled around to the emergency entrance and Dr. Kroger jumped out of the vehicle, approaching the emergency workers walking around in their blue outfits.

"My patient—Adrian Monk—he's in the car," he said, pointing at the vehicle. "He's very sick, and has become delirious."

"What kind of doctor are you?" one asked, as he followed Dr. Kroger to the car.

"A psychiatrist."

They crossed over to the passenger side of the vehicle and opened the door. Monk looked up at them, unsure of what to do.

"Come on, Adrian; can you get up out of the car?"

"Oh, didn't realize he was a cop," the EMT commented, as he noticed the jacket around Monk's shoulders. Dr. Kroger had inadvertently grabbed one of his old police force jackets from the armoire in his hurry to get his patient to the hospital, and immediately regretted what effects it might have on Monk's state of mind.

Did he just say… a cop?Oh, God, was this a return to… the day Trudy died? He remembered… the EMTs…. He pictured that horrible day unfolding, and tears came to his eyes.

He had just gotten off work and was returning home, about 15 minutes away, in fact, when he had first heard the sirens. Sounded like thousands of them, and their wails had shaken his psyche, and so he had sped the last few miles to where Trudy would be waiting for him, safe and sound, in their home.

She had had the day off from her job with The Examiner. She had called him at work during his lunch break, telling him that she loved him and couldn't wait until he returned home. This was a daily occurrence, though, he remembered. She'd call on her lunch break and usually he'd be around the station, and they'd talk for ten minutes or so about the day's happenings: any news she had uncovered, or any criminals he had caught, etc. He'd tell her jokes and she'd respond accordingly with her pleasant and appreciative laugh. They'd laugh together, sharing little tidbits of information that they both found interesting, and say little flirty things. And no matter what, Adrian and Trudy both always made sure to say _I love you_ before they hung up the phone. It was one of the last things he had heard her say.

The sirens had incited some panic in him, as he drove her car home. He then recalled that she would probably be there, and that he shouldn't worry incessantly as he always did. She had offered to get his car washed since she had nothing else to do all day, and he had appreciated the thoughtfulness of his beloved wife.

As he approached the apartment, there was no sign of his car in sight. Even so, he parked and scanned the block upon exiting the vehicle, hoping that maybe she had had to park it down the street further. It was nowhere to be found, and so he dashed for the door, feeling his heart rate increasing. Something was definitely wrong.

He had slammed open the door to find that the lights were out and the house was silent. Where could she have gone? The car washes in the area were usually closed by this time. It was then that the phone rang…

Maybe it was Trudy, to tell him she was going to be late…. He doubted it though, and this gut feeling made his knees go weak as he approached the ringing telephone.

"Monk, is that you?" It was Stottlemeyer. His voice sounded tight, strained, like he was holding his breath.

"Yes, it's me," he said carefully. "What's wrong?"

"It's—" he sighs, "—Trudy."

"Oh my God, what happened? Where is she? Is she alright?" He could feel his voice shaking and eyes watering, and had to pull up a stool for support, because his legs were on the verge of collapse.

There was a pause, as Stottlemeyer tried to form the words. "She's here—at the hospital." It was impossible to know what to say to his friend. "You might want to come do—"

"Is she alright?" his voice was breaking up at this point. There was a terrifying pause, and Adrian soon realized he had to leave _now_. "I'll be right there," he cried, allowing for the tears to drip from his eyes.

It was like a bad dream. He had pulled the car up in front of the emergency entrance, the very same entrance he was at now. He had left the keys in her car, leaving it idling in the corridor, and had raced into the building.

Captain Stottlemeyer was waiting for him by the desk. "Adrian—" he said, touching his shoulder as he ran towards him. "I'll take you to her. She's… gonna be okay."

His heart was racing and his eyes were fogged with tears. The captain had to support him as he walked into her room, where she was laying motionless in the hospital bed. The captain let them have this time to themselves, for he knew it wouldn't be long…

Adrian immediately ran to his wife's side and knelt down next to her, enclosing her cold hand in his warm one. Her skin was ashen, blotched with caked blood and soot. She was connected to dozens of whirring and beeping machines, and there were tubes, wires, and IVs running into her arms, and her chest, and her wrists… Her beautiful blonde hair was darkened with ash, soot, and dried blood, as well as her fair face. He tenderly stroked her cheek, and she looked over at him with eyes brimming with tears.

"Adrian," she moaned hoarsely. "I'm so glad you came."

He wiped away her tears, leaning in and kissing the palm of her icy hand. "Everything is going to be all right, Trudy," he murmured softly, his voice breaking. "You're going to be fine, honey…."

"Kiss me, Adrian," she whispered. He could feel the tears brimming in his eyes, and hoped she wouldn't notice them. He leaned in and they kissed one last time, a kiss that conveyed the love they felt for each other and would always feel for each other.

As he emerged from the kiss, he watched his wife's face. A smile formed on her cracked and charred lips as she gazed at him lovingly and mouthed 'I love you,' as tears streamed down her blackened cheeks.

"I love you too, Trudy," Adrian murmured, his voice faltering as he gazed into her eyes. He entwined his fingers within Trudy's slender fingers, and watched her as he kissed her hand.

She squeezed his hand weakly, closing her eyes as she murmured her last words. "Bread and butter."

Adrian gasped, horrified at what she could have possibly meant by the comment they had used with each other to refer to temporary separation, like releasing their handhold between lampposts. She was _leaving_ him? A chill ran through his entire body as she released her last breath.

The machine flat-lined and the bells began to ring in his head as the emergency workers rushed in to the room to try to revive her. He remained knelt next to the bed, holding her hand in his own, realizing her chest was no longer rising and falling with each breath. One of the workers pulled him away from the bed as they attempted to revive her with the defibrillator, but it was to no avail. He was being held back by two workers, now three, now Captain Stottlemeyer as well, as he tried to return to her room, to her side. It was as if he had gone insane, yanking and pulling like some kind of animal, desperate to be near her again. He felt no rational thought; he was crazed and inconsolable.

"You're not gonna lose her," he heard the captain repeating to him over and over and over as he held him back, the deep voice hollow and quivering echoing throughout his mind, along with the thud of the defibrillators and the constant high-pitched drone of the heart machine, indicating the lack of a heartbeat.

After a matter of minutes that seemed like hours, he watched in horror as the workers unplugged the machines from her lifeless body and drew the sheets up over her neck, then her face—

"P-please, d-don't cover her up," he cried, as the workers paused to look at him. He broke free of the men and dropped down at Trudy's bedside again, clutching her hand in his own and running his hand along her face, which still was moist from her tears.

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It had seemed like an eternity that he remained in the room with her body, whispering to her everything he wanted her to know, his intense and undying love for her that could never subside, could never fade. Somehow the captain had gotten him to leave the building, but he couldn't remember exactly how. He recalled being escorted to Stottlemeyer's car, feeling numb and devoid of everything, an empty shell. His vision was clouded by the tears he had outpoured, and his heart had seemed to sink into the pit of his stomach. He had been wearing his police uniform this entire time, and one of the emergency workers had commented on his being a cop as he was being lowered into the vehicle.

The two men noisily beckoned for Monk to stand up, snapping him out of his tearful reverie with their incessant nudging and murmuring. He had returned to the reality of the situation, but not completely. Their voices sounded foreign to him, and he stared in horror as they continued to speak to him. That was when the situation became too much to bear, and he lost consciousness.

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	3. At The Hospital

He awoke to the sound of machines, the steady beeping of EKG machines on the ward and the distant sounds of a defibrillator, and the hums of the other devices affixed to his wrists and arms. A draft blew across his skin as he realized he was only clothed in a scanty hospital gown underneath translucent white sheets. Turquoise curtains flanked either side of his makeshift room, but he could view doctors, nurses, and residents hurrying by in their turquoise scrubs on the open entranceway to his bed, wheeling gurneys down the main corridor of the emergency ward and shouting medical terminology of with which he was not familiar.

Soon after he had regained consciousness, a doctor approached him as he lay in the hospital bed, smiling and writing something down on a clipboard. "That's good that you're awake now, Mr.—" he referred to the paper—"Monk. How are you feeling?"

He was confused and bewildered by this new environment, and opened his mouth to reply to the doctor, but nothing came out.

"You definitely look a good deal better," the doctor commented.

"Wh-what's wrong with me? Wh-why am I here?" he weakly murmured, practically a hoarse whisper.

"Your—Dr. Kroger brought you here, and you passed out in the car. You've come down with pneumonia, but don't worry, you'll be out of this ward soon."

"Pneumonia?" He attempted to lift his arms in disbelief, but was too exhausted to do so. He could only speak in a harsh whisper. "So that's it—I'm going to die. Will I be sent home, alone, to die?" He began to cough up more mucus, and hastily swallowed it, as the doctor looked on.

"You're not going t—We're actually going to move you up to the third floor, to observe you for a night."

"Why?"

"By the scan done of your lungs, it seems you have double pneumonia. We'll have to start you on antibiotics as soon as possible."

"_Double_ pneumonia?"

"That means both of your lungs have fluid in them. Don't worry too much about it, though; we'll clear it up with antibiotics. But we _do_ want to observe you, to make sure that your loss of consciousness didn't exacerbate your preexisting condition."

There went the medical terms. And he had been on a roll too, explaining everything to him in understandable waysThe detective sighed, rolling his eyes at the situation. It was extremely difficult for him to breathe, like his chest was being restricted by some invisible belt. He attempted to pull himself to a seated position to improve his air flow, but the doctor pushed him back onto the mattress.

"You'll be brought up there very soon. Would you like to see Dr. Kroger now?" he told him, as he straightened the sheets at the foot of the mattress.

"Uhm…. alright," he replied, as he immediately reached under the sheets to adjust the gown and tucked the sheets under the mattress on either side.

Dr. Kroger was waiting in the lobby, and stood up as the emergency room doctor approached him. "Your—patient, Adrian Monk—is in pretty bad shape," he said, nodding his head and clicking his pen against the clipboard. "He has a pretty severe case of bacterial pneumonia, and it's double pneumonia as well. He'll probably have to be here for a couple of nights."

"Are you sure about this, Doctor?" the psychiatrist asked. "This man has obsessive compulsive disorder, and so he avoids germs at all costs…. He's the cleanest person I've ever known…."

"He still could have acquired the infection from being rundown, cooped up at home—"

"Well, his nurse left him almost five months ago, and he's been basically homebound since then, and pretty depressed, I might add."

"That'sit then. You really should call up some of his friends and family, to help cheer him up. That will help him get over this more quickly." He hastily changed the subject, motioning to the gut of the ward. "Would you like to see him?"

The psychiatrist nodded, following the doctor to Adrian's makeshift room, where he was propped up on one elbow in the hospital bed, drawing his knees toward his upper body to prevent anyone nearby from seeing his feet.

"Hey, Adrian, how are you feeling?" Dr. Kroger asked him, warmly smiling at the miserable detective. He felt terrible for the man, having to stay alone in the hospital for the next couple days.

A group of nurses came by and pointed at Adrian's bed. "We're going to be taking him upstairs now," one of them stated. The detective pulled himself to a seated position, but the nurses instructed him to lie down again.

If this was such a minor thing, why did he have to be admitted? Shouldn't he just get some medicine and be sent on his way? He watched the doctor stroll away, but had to ask him one more thing that was bothering him.

"Am I being admitted as an inpatient or as an outpatient?"

"Inpatient," the doctor responded, smiling grimly, and continuing on his way. Suddenly the clipboard became imperative for the doctor to concentrate on, and Adrian knew it was because he didn't want to be questioned any further. His condition must really be serious. Maybe Dr. Kroger told him to keep mum about details. The nurses kicked up the brakes on the bed and wheeled him toward the waiting service elevator, opened to expose its sickly yellow glow.

"Elevator!" he cried. "No—no elevator." He glanced at the four rotund female nurses, and down at the metal bars of his hospital bed. They continued to wheel his bed toward the open door, and he shifted his position on the bed, preparing to slide off.

"What are you doing, mister?" one asked him, as his leg appeared beneath the sheets, hanging off the side of the bed.

"I—can't—I've had terrible, terrible experiences with elevators—you don't understand."

"I assure you, mister; nothing is going to happen!"

"That's what I'm afraid of. The doors probably won't come open, and the buttons won't work, which is a fire hazard, and the—"

"Sir, we _have_ to take you up to your room. It's on the third floor. Would you rather climb the stairs?"

"Yes," he replied quietly, shifting his other leg to hang off the side of the bed. "Please—could you let me do that? I can do that—"

He didn't expect to have his legs collapse beneath him upon their landing on the floor. As he frantically held the gown down and together in the back, muttering angrily to himself, the nurses promptly hoisted him back up onto the mattress and positioned his legs to be parallel and centered in the bed.

Two of the nurses instructed him to lie down, and when he refused, they had to push him onto his back in the gentlest way possible, by keeping his arms from propping him up.

The four nurses wheeled the bed into the elevator and the door closed behind them as one nurse pushed the button for the third floor. Oh, God, this place was small.It was like a death box, a falling death box The elevator had to have more than a thousand pounds in it at the momentHe nervously glanced over at the weight limit, seeing 5000 pounds stated clearly. Wait—did that say 5000 pounds, or 5000 _grams_—

Less than a minute after the initial jolt, the elevator came to a stop at the third floor, and the 'bing' of the door sounded as it slid open effortlessly.

"See? Now, that wasn't so bad, sir," a nurse remarked. Dr. Kroger was already by the nurses' station, leaning against the desk.

The psychiatrist stayed at Adrian's bedside for an hour, then called up Captain Stottlemeyer at his home after recollecting it being written in the detective's Rolodex. He made sure he called from the nurse's station, so that Adrian would not know about the severity of his condition in what he was to tell the captain.

"Hello, Captain Stottlemeyer?" he began carefully.

"Yes? Who is this?" the deep familiar voice replied.

"This is—Dr. Kroger, Adrian Monk's psychiatrist. I just wanted to let you know that Adrian is here, at UCSF Medical Center on Parnassus Ave. He has a pretty bad case of bacterial pneumonia, and the doctors thought it would be good for him to have some visitors to help get him back on his feet."

"Pneumonia? I talked to him earlier this week; sounded like a cold to me. I'll be right down."

They said their goodbyes and soon Captain Stottlemeyer was at the hospital in room 309, where a weak-looking Adrian Monk fidgeted in the bed. Kroger had specifically indicated a single room, fortunately for the obsessive-compulsive man.

"Now, how did you happen to come down with this, Adrian? You sounded a lot better earlier this week."

"I… don't know, captain. Am I going to die?"

The captain let out a laugh. "Of course not, Monk; you'll be out of here in no time. They just want to observe you, is all."

"Well, I don't feel like I'm getting any better. Worse, in fact. I can already sense that you're both fading from m—"

"Now, you know that's not true. You're just not used to being sick. I remember when I was younger I had the most horrible case of mono, and the do—"

He was silenced by Dr. Kroger placing his hand on his knee.

"Adrian, I really think that the main cause of this is all in your head—" the psychiatrist began to say.

"Don't you think I know that already? Look at me; I can't even help myself!" He couldn't help but scratch the tubes running into the top of his hand. It irked him to think of the materials they were sending directly into his bloodstream.

"When a person gets pneumonia they _can't _help themselves. That's not _your _fault, Adrian. It was just your time to get it."

Adrian tried to nod, but it just seemed absurd that he should acquire this… disease now that his nurse, his personal RN, was gone. Maybe it was fate that he should be alone in his suffering….

The two men spent approximately two hours or so at the room, both promising to see the detective the following day. Dr. Kroger left a bit earlier than Stottlemeyer, who felt a bit uncomfortable attempting to make conversation with the man that he had misdiagnosed earlier in the week.

Where's Sharona? Adrian thought, as he tried to consume the bland hospital food. She had been an RN at this very hospital, and she hadn't showed… Did she even _know_ he was there? Probably not. He scowled as he sighed, pulling the blankets up to chest-level. He could tell the captain was going to be leaving soon, for he had stood up and was staring at something outside his window.

"If I happen to get worse," he mentioned to the captain, "could you please tell Sharona?"

"Why do you say that? Don't you want to get better?"

"Yes, but—just in case I don't—could you get a hold of her?"

"Now, how am I supposed to do that? Did she leave you a number?"

"No." He shifted uncomfortably, knowing that she had been purposely avoiding him.

"That's what I thought, or else she'd already be back here, tending to you."

"Well—she's living in her ex-husband's—ahem, _husband's_ house in New Jersey; his name's Trevor… Howe."

The captain approached his bedside, leaning towards him. "You're going to get better very soon, Adrian," he said to his former coworker. "They've already started you on antibiotics. You're in the best place you could be."

"I know, but—could you do that, just in case?"

The mustached man sighed, rolling his eyes as he straightened his back and turned towards the open door. "Okay." He gave Adrian a little wave. "I'll see you tomorrow."

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Over the next two days, Adrian's condition worsened, as he grew increasingly weaker. At the end of visiting hours during the second day, Stottlemeyer gaped as the sick detective grabbed his sleeve, pulling him down to ear level.

"Could you please get a hold of Sharona now?" he murmured feebly. "I think I could consider myself… deteriorating…. Please, before it's too late…."

The captain was distraught at how horrible his friend sounded, at how clogged up and difficult it had become for him to breathe. His friend was in complete and utter despair, and there was nothing that he could do or say to improve things for Adrian. The detective wheezed every time he breathed, teeth chattering while he lie under the thick layer of blankets and sheets. Leland looked at Adrian fearfully, and knew that he just _had _to go along with him; maybe he'd begin to improve at the _hope_ that she might just come back to him. It was all he could do to help him.

"Okay, Monk…. I'll do that—but I can't promise you she'll com—"

"I understand," the sick man replied. "Just let her know what's happened. Please."

He soon departed from Monk's room, and tracked down the precise phone number he was to call back at his office. Sighing, he dialed each number, trying to prepare for this….

"Hello, Sharona?"


	4. Sharona

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"Captain Stottlemeyer? How'd you get th—how are you?" she corrected herself, in her nasally New Jersey accent.

"I'm doing good; how have you been?" he asked her as politely as possible. He knew that Monk was hard to deal with, but the way in which she had left was just _harsh_.

"Ehhh, I've been better. What's up, Captain?" She knew there was some reason that the police captain of San Francisco was calling her, and was a bit worried and irritated at the same time.

"It's Monk…" he blurted. "He—has a pretty bad case of pneumonia and is in the hospital; he wanted you to know that."

"Oh, God!" she cried. "Is he getting any better?"

Stottlemeyer paused. He hated to worry Sharona, with her being on the other side of the country, and all.

"No, he's not," he muttered, swallowing hard.

"How did it happen?"

"I'm not totally sure yet. He's been cooped up in his apartment since you left, depressed as hell. Why did you have to go and do that to him?"

He had always felt sympathy for the detective, and understood some of what he had been going through for all those years when his wife Karen was badly injured in a car accident some time ago.

Sharona paused. She had felt absolutely awful about her sudden departure, and thought about Adrian all the time, as she tried to deal with Trevor's old ways reappearing. If the captain didn't hang up soon, she was going to start crying….

"I feel _terrible_ about doing that to him, the whole time I've been here. I really have, and—" she sighed sadly—"God, I'm so sorry that I did it the way I did. I just thought that Trev—"

"So what are you gonna do about it then? Are you gonna come and see him? That would mean the world to him, if you did. He _might _even get better."

Her eyes were starting to water. "—But, if I did that, it'd be too hard t—"

"Sharona, I'd hate to make you feel any worse, but I think your leaving is partly to blame for this. You _know _that Monk never gets sick."

"I know," she said, between the sobs that threatened to emerge. "I think I—made a mistake!" the nurse blurted, as she blew her nose into a napkin she had managed to grab just in time.

"Then won't you come see him? I'm really scared for him, Sharona. If he doesn't improve—"

"Okay, I'll be there as soon as I can."

After finding out that he was staying at the very hospital she had worked in, and hanging up with Stottlemeyer, she called off work for the next two days and booked plane tickets to San Francisco that very night….

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Sharona cried as she packed her bags, regretting her fateful decision to leave. Not only was _she_ unhappy, but her former employer was unhappy and sick as well. Trevor had begun to gamble again, and would return early in the morning from the bar, smelling of liquor, cigarettes, and perfume. He had actually gone on one of his little splurges tonight. Why was she so terrible at judging men?

Finishing up with the last clothes and toiletries, the nurse looked up to find her son Benjy watching her intently. "Going back to visit Mr. Monk?" he said inquisitively. Now, he could _really_ read people. It was disturbing how well he could do it.

"Benjy," she stammered. "were you eavesdropping on my phone conversation?"

"Uh, no," he replied, confused. "I just figured—you're crying, and you packed some of his wipes."

She glanced down at her bag and noticed the unopened box of Lever 2000 wipes she had happened to throw in her luggage. Chuckling and wiping her eyes, she looked back at Benjy. "You're good, kid, ya know that?" She rubbed his head as she said this, feeling a bit better.

"I guess I'm not going, am I?" he asked.

"No, because then your father would be upset," she responded. "We have to keep _him_ happy, since he's not gonna return the favor."

"Well, could you tell him I said hi, and that I really miss him?" Benjy added hopefully.

This made Sharona feel even worse. "Okay, Benjy. I'll do that," she mumbled, trying to hide her face as new tears welled up in her eyes.

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After a five-hour red-eye flight, Sharona hailed a taxi from the SFO and found herself already giving directions to UCSF hospital, even though visiting hours were long over. It was almost four o'clock in the morning and she felt dizzy from exhaustion and all those pent-up emotions coming out so blatantly, so before the driver reached Parnassus Ave. she had him direct her towards Adrian's house. Her sister Gail, as well as Lt. Disher and Captain Stottlemeyer, would be deep in sleep and she really didn't want to bother them at this hour. Besides, the captain was already miffed at her for leaving San Francisco in the first place.

Adrian wouldn't be home, however, so she checked her keyring to see that she did indeed still have his house key. She had used it a couple of times, but it was mostly for emergencies, in case he should have some kind of dissociative disorder like during the earthquake. He had never asked for the key back… She should have realized then that leaving him was stupid.

After paying the driver, she walked up to the familiar place, hoping she wouldn't have some sort of nervous breakdown from all that had happened in the past eight hours or so. She didn't want Trevor to know exactly where she went, so she left a voice mail on the phone to give her husband an excuse dealing with her mother, or something of that nature.

She slept on Adrian's couch that night, feeling a renewed amount of guilt for her hasty decision to return to her ex-husband, and her neglect of her now-ill former boss. "I'm gonna make it up to Adrian; I _have_ to!" she said to herself, trying to picture how hard it must have been for him during these past five months. She could feel the thick veil of depression he had created throughout the entire apartment, blanketing the air and making it hard to breathe.

The next morning, she awoke very early, preparing to visit the hospital at 11 am, the start of its visiting hours, and noticed the house was sloppier than it had ever been—well, except after the earthquake, of course. Tea bags and three newspapers lie on the kitchen island with cough syrup nearby, having been drank lately. The measurement cup still had the dried remnants of the red substance in it, so she cleaned it and rinsed it out. The throw pillows on his bed were awry, mashed up against the headboard, so she fixed them precisely, noticing the filled laundry basket during that time. "He must be really sick," she stated solemnly, "to have left everything in such a mess."

She did his laundry as well, making sure to do it exactly the way he always had, and even put the clothes away afterwards. It was still not time for visiting hours to start, so she took a quick shower, cleaned out the shower stall, and put on her nicest outfit to see him in.

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Adrian awoke early in the morning with the usual chills and an uncontrollable urge to use the restroom. He scooted himself to the side of the bed feebly, and let his legs dangle over the open side to rest upon the floor for the first time he'd attempted to do this sort of this on his own.

He lowered himself onto his feet carefully, gripping the headboard and the side of the bed in white-knuckled terror as his socked feet touched the cool tile of the floor. The bathroom looked far away.

"How the hell am I going to do this?" he mumbled, shuffling towards the end of the bed. "As soon as I let go of this thing I'm going to slip and fall."

How had he suddenly become so old, so decrepit? He had to try, though, because his bladder felt at the verge of bursting. The plastic urinal affixed to the end of his bed would not hold it all, and was extremely unsanitary anyway. Having nurses there to help him the past couple of days was… uncomfortable, to say the least. He had come to miss the simple pleasure of washing his hands, and _walking_.

An unexpected burst of strength came over him, allowing him to make it to the bathroom in time. He glanced at the mirror before turning towards the toilet. He _really_ had to make himself look better, and the shower stall was right there….

After relieving himself, he stepped into the shower, where two small bottles of shampoo and conditioner were waiting, along with a brand new bar of soap and the whitest rag he had ever seen. Undressing wasn't too difficult, for he only had the flimsy gown on, along with his socks and a pair of underwear he had managed to sneak on.

"Maybe I'm finally starting to get over this," he said to himself, as he lathered himself up. The shower felt good; it was the first time he had felt decently happy in a while. The water was a perfect temperature, removing the chilled feeling he had had upon awakening, and of course he had relieved himself of his other problem successfully, and felt pretty good at the moment.

He finished up in about an hour, having to hear the incessant pounding of worried nurses on the bathroom door for the last five minutes of it. "I'm fine!" he had shouted. "Can't a man take a shower?" "No, I haven't fallen!"

He was already settled back in his bed, feeling much cozier than before, when visiting hours began. At the time he was attempting to watch a football game on television, but soon became bored with the incessant commercials. Breakfast had come about a half an hour before, and it didn't make him quite as nauseated as it had the first two days of his hospital stay.

"Why do I have such a good feeling about today?" he wondered aloud. "Maybe I'll get to go home." Soon, however, he hacked up a smaller yet still greenish mucous glob, and settled for Dr. Phil on the television.

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After applying the last touches of makeup, Sharona went through the apartment in one last sweep, ensuring that nothing was out of place and everything was orderly. She turned out the lights, locked the door, and walked a block or so down the road where taxis were available for hailing.

Sharona arrived at the hospital at 10:58 am, and stood in the main lobby as she glared down the secretary for information on where her former employer was staying.

"Excuse me; I'm wondering where an 'Adrian Monk' is staying here?" she questioned the woman, leaning over the tall desk.

"Hello," the woman cordially responded. She glanced up nervously at the clock, then around the large lobby. "You'll have to wait a little while for visiting hours."

"What are you talkin' about? It's eleven o' clock!" the feisty nurse replied. "I know that's when they start; I _worked_ here!"

"Do you work here _now_?"

"No."

"Then you'll have to wait until eleven."

"But it _is_ eleven, see?" She pointed at the face clock, with the minute hand half of a millimeter away from the 12.

The secretary began typing into her computer, bringing up Adrian's file. She unsteadily glanced up at the clock again, and then looked at Sharona.

"Your name please?" she asked.

"Sharona –Sharona Fleming."

The woman typed the information into her computer. "Well, he's in room 309, on the third floor."

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Sharona stepped out of the elevator, preparing for the reunion. Why had she waited this long to come back to him, returning only when he became ill? He'd probably be extremely weak, lying in a bed all pale and exhausted, most likely having lost a good deal of weight. Uneasiness crept across the nurse, as she made her way to Adrian's room…

The police consultant had fallen in and out of a light sleep from watching Dr. Phil. This kind of thing wasn't his forte; paying attention to a television program for a half hour at a time. He thought of his apartment, and the condition in which he had left it. Oh God, he had forgotten to do the laundry! It was still sitting by his bed! He had left the cough syrup in the kitchen, and hadn't even cleaned out the measurement cup. Well, one more thing to throw out…. Did Dr. Kroger remember to lock his door? There were probably hoards of thieves in his apartment, carrying his possessions away…. He sat up, as something dawned on him. This was the first time that he had actually _thought_ of the disorder in which he had left his apartment, so he _must_ be getting better.

He heard the clicking of heels approaching, and knew automatically that it was not a nurse, for they had to wear flat shoes. The nurses' shift changed in the evening, so no one would arrive in her street clothes at this hour. He glanced up at the clock. It was 11:02 am, the beginning of visiting hours. Must be a female visitor for someone on this ward. The clicks discontinued shortly afterwards.

Sharona stopped abruptly before reaching the doorway. This was it. She'd be seeing Adrian again, for the first time in almost five months. She straightened her skirt and took a deep yet quiet breath, preparing for the reunion.

Turning off the television, Adrian fixed the sheets around him, glancing apprehensively towards the open door. A woman stepped into the doorway, looking ashamed, frightened, and anxious simultaneously. Sharona. Sharona was back.


	5. A Stranger In My Arms

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He almost choked, at releasing the breath he had been holding. What should he do? She was standing there in a halo of hospital-light wearing a surprisingly demure outfit, blinking rapidly but not speaking, her hands nervously fiddling with her skirt. He could hear the sounds of her swallowing, as she gazed at something below his eye-level. 

"Sharona," he stammered, "Is it really you?"

He looked so… sickly and feeble, like he had aged ten years, putting her on the verge of collapse. Now there was a twinkle to her eyes, which was due to the onset of tears.

"Yes. It's me, Adrian," she said quietly, as the first tear slid down her cheek. She wiped it quickly with the back of her hand, and then straightened out her skirt again. Her choice of outfit this time was much more… modest than usual, but she knew that it would make Adrian more comfortable.

He watched Sharona attempt to regain her composure, but it was rapidly slipping. Why was she crying? Was it because she heard of his condition possibly worsening, or was it because of something else? His mouth became cottony, and it suddenly became hard to breathe. _Say_ something, Sharona. _Please_.

She timidly began to approach his bedside, avoiding any eye contact with her former employer.

"I'm… so sorry, Adrian. Can you ever forgive me for what I did to you?"

Eye contact was made, and now she was sobbing. He quickly glanced away from her, looking out the window. How could he possibly respond to that? What could he say? She had abandoned him, had left him for dead. She hadn't called or left a number, even to check up on him. But now she was here. She had come back. For good? He looked back at her, now beside the bed.

"Are you staying?" he said guardedly.

More tears. More awkward silence. This wasn't good. She squatted down a bit, putting her face at eye level with his. She touched his icy hand with her own warm one, gazing at him sadly.

"I-I—can't," she blurted. "Benjy—he's still in New Jersey. Captain Stottlemeyer told me about you, and things, and I wanted to come see you."

"Why can't you—just—stay?" the detective responded, straightening his back. "If you can't pay for—I can buy Benjy's plane ticket, then you won't have t—"

"I'm still married to Trevor," she interrupted.

The subject had to change fast, for she didn't know how much more guilt she could take.

"How have you been feeling?" she inquired hollowly, rubbing his hand. "You look good." She attempted a smile. It wasn't very convincing though.

The detective was caught off-guard. He was prepared to fight for her return, and all she could do was pretend the subject had never been brought up in the first place.

"Sharona, what would be so hard about… coming back? I'm… sick without you."

She took her hand off his, her breaths wavering with sobs.

"It's—I—Trevor wouldn't want to leave New Jersey, and Benjy needs a father—"

"Is that it? You're doing this for _Benjy_? What kind of a father has Trevor been, anyway? _I'd_ make a better father than he wou—"

His voice trailed off, as he realized the context of his words. Did he really mean that? He had to correct his previous assertion. No use confusing her to no end….

"I—well, what I meant to say was—aren't you doing this for yourself at all? Why put yourself through it again if _you're_ not happy?"

"I wa—I _am_ happy."

He looked at her pointedly as she corrected her slip-up.

"No you're not," he said. "You're miserable… just like me."

A coughing jag began, ending with the spitting of some mucousy material into the spit cup. Sharona watched him in horror, then decided to change the subject for good.

"Can't we just talk about something _positive_? We have plenty of time to discuss negative things…."

"Plenty of time?" Adrian smiled at her, hopeful.

The return gaze shot his hopes down.

"Now, you know that's not what I meant. I took off work for two days to come here. Today and tomorrow. Please don't make this harder than it is."

She leaned over his bed, looking at the material he had coughed up, and smiled at him.

"It's a good color. You'll be sent home soon." She patted his hand as she straightened up again, to watch him with reddened eyes.

"Why didn't you leave me a number—anything at all—to contact you?"

"It—it would have been too hard to stay away, then," she responded meekly.

Damnit, all this emotion and guilt and shame was hard on her psyche. It was piling up, second by second, as her visibly weakened boss gazed up at her morosely. She didn't want to give in, and change her life again. She just had to try a little bit longer with Trevor; maybe he'd become the husband she wanted him to be. No, he would never change, she knew it, and it only hurt her more to feel so helpless.

She went to the foot of his bed and examined his charts, flipping through the pages idly. Hopefully she could keep the topic from sinking to the pits of despair once more, by telling him good news about his condition.

The charts were shocking. In the past three days, his condition had deteriorated rapidly, reaching the very bottom the night before. He had been receiving antibiotics, IV drips, and visitors for those days, but the pneumonia had only worsened. There _was_ no good news to tell him. Maybe she should call off work for a few more days. He was really in bad shape….

"So, am I going to die?" he cracked hollowly, faking a smile.

Oh, God, she was going to give the results away with a look. Better smile fast.

"No, silly; you'll be fine." She flashed him a fraudulent grin.

"I saw you while you were looking at those," he said, pointing at the charts with a pale finger. "You looked worried. Wh—what do they say? Tell me what they say."

"You know, you're looking really good. Your breathing is normal, and you're not wheezing or gulping for air, and your spit-up is a good color—"

"What does it say, Sharona?" he demanded, propping himself up straighter with his elbows. "Why won't you tell me?"

"Okay, okay," she sighed, holding up her hands. "You _haven't_ been doing so good. But I _swear_ the charts will show an improvement for today. I definitely think you've gotten through the worst of it."

"Do you think it's because you returned?" he snapped.

She stared at him in silence, unable to respond.

"If that's so, why don't you stay? Do you want to be the reason for my dea—"

"That's _enough_, Adrian. Would you like to make me feel any _worse_ about what I did? I'm sorry! I can't say it enough. I don't know how to convince you that I'm sorry!"

"Stay."

"I sold my house. I have nowhere to live, and I don't need _another_ nasty divorce—"

"You could stay with m—" he began to say, but cut himself off. Would he be willing to _live_ with her? Ehh, that was pushing it a bit. Her and her son, using his bathroom, sleeping... where? Where would they sleep? It was a one-bedroom apartment. He saw Sharona's shocked stare, and restarted his statement.

"You could stay with your sister Gail for awhile, until you're back on your feet. That'll be in no time. I'll get back on the job again, and everything will be like it was."

She shook her head. "I can't restart my life again! I've already restarted it _three_ times now in getting remarried and moving back in with Trevor! You can't just expect me to drop everything for _you_, Adrian! I have a _son_! I have a life!"

"Well, I don't."

Oh, no, the tears were threatening to come again. Why was he so good at eliciting these emotions from her? Even Trevor couldn't make her feel so guilty and crappy and ashamed of herself.

She had returned to San Francisco to see him the moment she learned of his ailment. She had bought the plane ticket herself, quite a hefty sum. But this wasn't about money. It was about trying to move on, trying to fix things between her and her ex—well, husband now. That had completely failed as of yet. And now Adrian was putting her on this chronic guilt-trip that'd last her the rest of her natural life. Had she done _nothing_ right?

"How about a compromise, Adrian? I'll stay a few more days; would that make you feel any better?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe what? I should stay a while longer, or maybe you'll feel better?"

"Uhm… both."

Sharona pulled out her cell phone and called her employer, requesting a couple more days off, if she happened to need them. She contacted Benjy as well, instructing him to tell Trevor it was an emergency and she _had _to stay.

The nurses brought Adrian his lunch, and he seemed to markedly improve at eating the bland meal in front of him. Captain Stottlemeyer and Dr. Kroger arrived after lunchtime, and were stunned to see Sharona.

"Sharona," the captain said, motioning to the hallway, "can we talk… outside?"

Adrian was confused. Had she come on her own volition? Or had he told her to come back? He hadn't considered his comment to Stottlemeyer.

The pair went out into the hallway, and made their way towards the nurses' station. Stottlemeyer stopped and turned around to face her.

"I'm really happy that you came back so soon. He already looks one hundred percent better. You shoulda seen him yesterday; I was truly worried about him then."

"I'm sure it's not because of me; he's just coming out of it is all." She ran a hand through her hair uncomfortably.

"No, I'm pretty sure it's because of you. He's been in despair, Sharona. Hasn't been on a case since you left. I'll tell ya, the unsolved crimes are piling up."

"You're kidding me? Not _one_?"

"Nope," he replied, frowning.

"If nothing else, could you just help him get back on his feet again, regain the will to live?"

"I had originally planned to stay for two days, but I increased it to a couple more. I hate seeing him like this."

"So you're not staying for good?"

"Captain," she remarked, "I got _remarried_. Benjy needs a father, and Trevor can only suffice if and _only_ if we live in New Jersey."

"I hope you know what you're doing," he responded. "I hope things work out with you and… Trevor."

They returned to the room looking flushed and embarrassed. Monk stared at them as they walked in, studying their expressions to reveal the topic of their conversation. Well, of course it was about him, that's why they had to leave the room to discuss it.

The day passed quickly with the three visitors present. Sharona attempted to refrain from talking, and all Dr. Kroger did was talk, asking Adrian all kinds of questions about his feelings and thoughts, basically everything he didn't want to talk about in front of his former employee.

When it came time to leave, Stottlemeyer turned to Sharona. "Where did you stay last night? Did you get a hotel room?"

The nurse definitely didn't want to discuss this in front of Adrian. He'd probably be offended that she was breathing his air and using his bathroom and laundry facilities. She cleared her throat a few times and crossed her legs, hoping the captain would get the point that she didn't want to discuss the subject.

"Where _did _you stay, Sharona?" Monk asked. "You flew in last night, right? It had to have been really late when you arrived."

"Yes," she replied quickly, sighing deeply and flipping her hair backwards. The three men stared at her, waiting for her to respond.

"Okay," she blurted, feeling defeated. "I stayed at your apartment," she said, looking at Adrian timidly.

Sharona was giving him a timid look? How could she have changed so much since he had last seen her almost half a year ago? It was probably that damn Trevor, beating her emotions down until she was as meek and hesitant as he.

"How did you get in?" he asked. It disturbed him to know that she was able to enter his personal home without his being present.

"I still have your house key." She took out the key, flashing it to him. "Don't worry; I'll return it for real this time," she said, laughing nervously. Oh, damn it to hell. Monk's face visibly fell at the remark, and Dr. Kroger put a hand to his own face. Why did she have to say something that made him feel _worse_?

She sighed. "Well, you know what I meant; you'd probably be nervous, knowing there was a key to your house somewhere out there…."

"No, I had actually forgotten you had one."

"I'm sorry."

"You can stay there, if you want," he said, shifting uncomfortably. "Just don't—" She looked up at him, shocked. "—well, I don't want you to get sick too, just—don't touch the—"

"It's okay, Adrian. If I get sick it's because I deserve it. Now you, you didn't deserve it. I'll just get a hotel; I've done nothing to merit a free stay."

He shook his head. If she felt so bad, why didn't she just stay again and make it up to him? She was making comments that he could see himself making, and it irked him to no end.

"Don't say that," he responded. "You can stay at my hou—"

"Well, I'm going to head out now," Stottlemeyer said, rising to his feet from the chair. Dr. Kroger stood up as well.

"Yes, I'll be leaving as well, Adrian. You've definitely improved a great deal since yesterday. I'll see you again in a couple of days, whether it's here or at your home; is that alright with you?"

Dr. Kroger was always so polite. Didn't he just want to yell sometimes, to scream sense into his mind? It had to be an impossible job, watching his patient sinking to the depths of sickness and insanity, lying in a hospital bed with blue lips, spitting up green gobs, and making everyone ill at ease.

They said their goodbyes, and the two men headed out. Sharona wanted to follow suit; any more time with Adrian alone tonight would be too nerve-wracking.

"Well, I'm gonna head out too, Adrian. Thanks for letting me stay at your place. I'll be back in the morning, alright?"

She stood up and smiled, clutching her purse in her hand. She really _really_ wanted to hug him, not because she thought he'd appreciate it, but because she wanted to. Before he could say a word, she leaned over the bed and embraced him.

"I'm so sorry about all of this, and I hope you feel better very soon," she murmured into Adrian's ear. Why was she hugging him, only to leave? He was utterly confused.

Adrian wasn't alone for very long afterward, for the doctors ran some tests and found that he had indeed improved a great deal that very day. Things were indeed looking up, in the case of the detective's health, at least….

That night in his room Adrian couldn't sleep. All he could think about was Sharona's return, and how uncomfortable and standoffish she had seemed to him the entire visit. It hadn't been long enough for her to act like such a… stranger with him, and it made him very uneasy. Trudy, well, she had been gone for years, but she was still the same… although, well... nevermind. Times had changed, his relationship with his former nurse had changed, and damn it, he _hated_ change.

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	6. Spilling Their Guts

Sharona arrived at the hospital when visiting hours began, looking pale and withdrawn, with red rims around her eyes. She had _really_ packed on the makeup to cover up that aspect of her appearance, Adrian noted. Had she been crying?

"What's wrong, Sharona?" he asked her, as she sat down.

"Oh, don't worry about me," she replied, attempting a tight-lipped smile.

"It looks like you've been crying…."

"Does it?" she snapped. "Because I haven't, for your information."

Her response was too harsh, and she knew it.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. Well—it's not that I was _cr_—" she began to explain.

"It's okay," he said. Wow, he looked so much better than even the day before. She went to the end of the bed to study his charts. They had dramatically improved.

"Wow, Adrian, I'll bet they'll be sending you home today. Your charts are great."

"Really?"

He hadn't coughed at all since yesterday morning, and it seemed strength had returned to him. He had taken a shower in the morning before visiting hours and changed his own clothes, and knew that he was feeling better. It was because of Sharona; he knew that.

"Yeah, your breathing rate is—"

She stopped in mid-sentence, watching him get out of bed.

"What are you doing? You can't do that!" she said to him, staring at him in shock.

"I'm getting out of bed. I needed to stretch my legs. And yes, I _can _do that."

He stood in front of her in the flimsy robe, with his slender, hairy legs exposed, and _he didn't care_. He didn't even try to cover up; he just smiled at her, proud of himself? Was he on medication again? He seemed so… different since she had last worked for him. Less… scared to death, maybe? Maybe it was the hope. She hated to make him regress again, because it seemed like he had made so much progress. God, he's hairy, she mused. I've always liked hairy men…. Trevor, he's like a baby…. Oh God, what was her problem! Was she _checking_ him out?

Adrian watched Sharona's expression change from the initial shock of his emergence to one of keen interest. She was eyeing him up and down, blatantly, as he stood in his hospital gown down to his knees, with legs and arms exposed to the world. This had to be some sort of joke, right? His assistant had always been so… interested in… everyone else…. And right now, he _was_ that someone else. He shivered, realizing how vulnerable he was, as he felt the breeze hit the bare skin on his back. He was practically naked in front of this… strange new woman. Okay, back to bed….

He backed up, hitting the IV machine as Sharona averted her gaze to the window. As she looked away with pure embarrassment, he slid back under the covers, readjusting his gown and the sheets to cover up once more.

What had happened to them? Everything had always been so comfortable, so friendly between them, and now he felt vulnerable in front of her. Of course, he had never worn a hospital gown in front of her….

Sharona stared out the window, feeling delirious. Since when did_ he_ become an object of interest for _me_? she asked herself. Granted, he was a much nicer man than Trevor, but he was—well, _had_ been—her employer. I wish Trevor could show _me_ the kind of dedication that Adrian has for his dead wife, she thought bitterly. He's definitely _the_ most devoted husband ever. Suddenly her cell phone vibrated in her purse, making her jump involuntarily.

"Hello?" she said, after getting her phone out and opening it. She turned to glance at Adrian, who was gaping at her from his spot on the bed, securely under the covers. Apparently he hadn't forgotten about her not-so-subtle nuances earlier. Hopefully her phone conversation would steer his concentration elsewhere, for she already felt paranoid about the confrontation.

"_Hello, Sharona. Where are you_?" It was Trevor.

She changed her tone of voice to fit the situation. Casual, and a bit sarcastic.

"Oh, hey, Trevor. I'm at the hospital."

"_Which one_?"

"Didn't Benjy tell you? I'm visiting my old boss; he's sick."

"_Why didn't you tell me where you were going? I was worried about you_."

She scoffed silently. Worried? He had been at the bar, partying it up when she had left the house.

"You had gone out for the night. I wasn't about to wait twelve hours for you to come home."

"_You could've at least left a note_."

"Well, I was in a hurry. It was an emergency."

Adrian attentively listened to Sharona's end of the conversation, noticing her drastic change in mood. She was now irritated and annoyed, standing by the window staring off in the distance as she talked to Trevor on the phone. By her posture and her tone of voice, things apparently weren't kosher in the Howe house.

"You know what? I'm not sure…. Since when did _you_ become so concerned?"

A pause, as she switched the phone to her other ear and tensed up.

"Oh my God! Are you kidding me?"

Something was very wrong. Adrian was morbidly curious now, but didn't want to make his interest too obvious. He continued to watch the back of Sharona, as she fidgeted in place in front of the window.

"When were you gonna tell me? Oh God…. Is she there now?"

Sharona wrote down a phone number on a small scrap of paper and soon ended the conversation with her husband. She looked over at Adrian with fear in her eyes.

"My mother's… in the hospital," she blurted. "She's… had another stroke."

Tears were forming in the corners of her eyes. He sat up straighter in the bed, preparing to slip out and go to her, but remembered the last little… situation, and stayed put.

"I'm so sorry, Sharona," he managed to say. "Is she going to be alright?"

"They aren't sure," she cried. "She's unconscious right now. I'm—I'm gonna call there now, is that okay?" She began fiercely dialing the numbers from the sheet of paper, and held the phone to her ear.

"That's fine," he said. "You don't have to ask permiss—"

"Hello? Hello, this is Sharona Fleming, I'm calling about my mom. Cheryl Fleming, she had a stroke earlier today…."

Adrian watched as her body seemed to loosen up. Maybe it was good news; she did seem to be relieved. Sharona hung up with the hospital soon afterwards, and turned to Adrian with a slight smile.

"Well, she's regained consciousness… but they aren't sure of the extent of the damage. She hasn't spoken yet…. She'll probably be released tomorrow or the next day, they said…."

"That's good to know, that she's conscious," Adrian replied. "She'll be alright; she's a strong woman."

"Thank you for being patient with me," Sharona said, approaching his bed.

"Wh—you don't have to say that—" he began to say, taken aback by her comment. Why did she feel the need to apologize for a family emergency? She most certainly had changed.

The blonde walked over to a nearby chair and collapsed heavily onto it, holding her head in her hands. Had he said something to upset her? She wasn't usually this… sensitive about things. She hadn't been nearly as emotional when her mother had had her first stroke….

"Wh-what's wrong, Sharona?" he asked her, trying to see her face from his spot on the bed. "D-did I say somethi—"

She looked up at him, and tears ran down her cheeks as she began to sob.

"N-no, Adrian, it's not you. It's me! My own mother—I'm a _nurse_, for God's sake, and I didn't see it comin'. It's _all_ my fault. I didn't notice the warning signs…."

"Now, you know that's not true. You're a great nurse," Adrian responded. He leaned toward Sharona, where she was sitting in the chair beside his bed, and wiped a tear off her face.

She gazed at him with disbelief. "How can _you_, of all people, say that? I practically left you for dead, and _you _could have die—" she cut herself off quickly –"my mother's already had one stroke, so it's not like it came out of the blue. I'm useless."

She put her head down, covering her face with her hands as she began sobbing freely.

Adrian was highly disturbed. Sharona—his rock, his caretaker—was falling apart right before his eyes. He felt completely helpless to do anything, and had no idea what to say to her.

"You're not useless, Sharona. You—you raised a great son, you—took care of me for all those years, you take care of your mother and the patients where you work…."

"How can you be so nice to me, when I've been so lousy to you?" she sobbed, looking up again as she opened her purse for a tissue. "Ya know what—I don't deserve you, Adrian. I deserve someone who treats people worse than _I _do, like Trev—"

Oh, God. She had said it. She had just told Adrian, more or less, how things were actually coming along with her husband. Her comment was met with a stunned silence, as Adrian gaped at her, opening and closing his mouth with no words coming out. The reaction to what she had said was expected, but she still felt fresh tears coming on.

Adrian had to say something back, now that the subject had been brought up.

"You _do_ deserve me, Sharona. You've always been good to me. Doesn't it prove it, that when you leave I get sick? I never got sick when you were here—"

"That's just me doing my_ job_, Adrian. No matter what, I still got paid for being your nurse."

"—You saved my _life_, Sharona. I was homebound, and—"

"I'm not the one you should be thankin' for _that_. Stottlemeyer _hired_ me, when he saw how you were feeling. You were capable of surviving all along; you just needed a little encouragement."

"—And my encouragement was _you_, just like it is now. I'm better now. _Please_ stay, Sharona. Trevor doesn't deserve _you_."

As soon as the response had left Adrian's mouth, Sharona began bawling. Her nose dripped as she searched feverishly in her purse for tissue, but Adrian quickly handed her the box of _Puffs_ on his nightstand. This only made things worse. She actually had to leave the room because she was so embarrassed to be crying so openly in front of her former employer. With a red face and ruined makeup, she stared at herself in the hospital restroom. What had happened to her 'tough' days, when she leant a shoulder to cry on, when she convinced Adrian he wasn't crazy, when she pushed her employer to try new things?

Adrian was shocked by Sharona's display of emotions. It wasn't her mother's condition anymore; now he _alone_ was making her cry. He watched her deplete the entire box of _Puffs_ as she tried to control her tears and her runny nose. How he wished she weren't so… unsanitary—such a potential for germs, as everyone _else_ was as well, for all he wanted to do right now was jump out of bed and hold her and wipe every tear away until she was happy again….

The detective watched her as she attempted to stop crying, as she shot out of the chair and left the room. He couldn't comfort her; he couldn't do anything for her. All he could do was sit and worry about the _germs_ that might be on her. Why couldn't he be like everyone else: dependable and supportive and comforting—just _normal_? He grabbed the _Puffs_ box and looked into the slit at the top, seeing the balled-up tissue balls inside. In those tissues were tears she had spilled—because of him, and he felt overwhelmed with guilt as he tossed the box into the trash can.

Sharona returned from the bathroom in about ten minutes, and Adrian noticed right away that she had reapplied her makeup and was attempting to make a convincing smile.

The morning and afternoon continued with idle conversation, a bit more than yesterday, but the subject of Trevor, Sharona staying, or Sharona's mother did not surface again in that time. Even though Adrian had practically spilled his guts to her, and she had done the same to him, the relationship was still strained, and both could sense it and were uneasy. They both knew that there was that underlying problem of _staying_ that would not be agreed upon, and neither wanted the flood of emotions to come back upon mention of that particular subject.

Stottlemeyer came in shortly before visiting hours ended, hoping he'd have missed the bulk of the conversation that Adrian and Sharona _needed_ to have.

He walked in to see Sharona sitting on a chair a distance from Adrian's bedside. There was a strained silence between them, he noted, and he took a seat in the other visitor chair.

He was soon informed of Cheryl Fleming's stroke, and could see that Monk was definitely healthier today. It was extremely uncomfortable sitting in the same room with the pair, for they stayed silent most of the time. Had something happened earlier in the day? How was everything going to pan out in the end? He left after only about a half an hour of visiting.

The doctor arrived about 45 minutes before the end of visiting hours, checking Adrian's vital signs and respiratory information.

"Would you like to be released tonight?" he told the stunned Adrian. "You're practically cured."

Adrian looked over at Sharona to see her reaction. She fidgeted at his intent gaze. Yes, it would be an uncomfortable night with her in the apartment, but maybe, just maybe he could win her back, could make her stay…. Trevor was treating her badly, _that_ he knew. All she needed was a little encouragement, just like he had needed.

"Uhm, yes… I'd like that," he replied.

"Well, alright then. We're going to release you tonight. I'm also going to give you a prescription for amoxicillin, which you should take twice a day for the next week, just to be sure the bacteria are wiped out."

He wrote out the prescription on a sheet of paper and handed it to the detective. The man soon departed and Adrian was left to stare at the hospital's closet, where his clothes were hanging.

"Uhm…."

Sharona stood up. "It's okay; I'll wait in the hallway while you change."

"Alright. Just…don't leave, okay?"

"I won't." She grabbed her purse and left the room, shutting the heavy door behind her. Adrian slid out of bed and pressed the lock button on the door. Oh, he'd be seen point-blank if a nurse should come in…. He pulled the curtain around the circumference of the bed, hastily fetched his clothes from the closet, and slipped into the familiar comfort of his own clothes. Oh my God, he noted, finding the police jacket, how did _this _end up here? Was someone playing a cruel trick on him? He then remembered that Dr. Kroger had grabbed a jacket from his armoire, and happened to grab that particular article of clothing.

His 'dirty' clothes had been washed, so he had no additional garments to carry, and nothing else in the room was his. But the bed was unmade…. Oh, forget it; he just wanted to leave, and he turned away from the disturbance. Before he could change his mind, he slung the police jacket over his arm, ensuring that his house keys were in the pocket, and held the slip of paper in his other hand as he exited the room.

Sharona was surprised at his promptness. It had only been ten minutes. But why was Adrian holding his _police_ jacket?

"Ummm," she began to say, motioning to his jacket.

"Oh, this," he said, chuckling nervously. "Dr. Kroger brought me to the hospital, and he accidentally grabbed this for me to wear on the way over. Well, I _think_ it was an accident. Hmph." He scratched his head with the paper-holding hand.

"It's okay, I'm sure you'll be wearing that again, on purpose," she replied, smiling.

Oh, how he had missed her praises for him: when she'd smile at him after he'd solved a case, when she'd pat him on the back and compliment him. He had truly lived for those moments; it was like he was on the force again…. The old times with Sharona had temporarily returned, and maybe, just maybe, he could convince her to keep them there.

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	7. Home Sweet Home

They left the hospital, picking up the prescription at the hospital pharmacy first. The ride back was uncomfortable, for Sharona had to hail a taxi, since she had no car. They sat in silence in the back of the cab all the way to Pine Street. 

All this stress and emotion is really getting to me, she mused, as she avoided looking at her former boss. I feel so weak, and now I'm getting nauseated. Better not show it, or Adrian will flip out….

Upon entering the house, Adrian noticed that the newspapers on the kitchen were in a neat pile, and that the cough syrup was missing. He walked over to the island, putting his hand on the surface.

"I put the DayQuil away and cleaned the cap," Sharona remarked. "Is that what you were looking for?"

"Uhm, yes…." He turned to his former nurse. "You didn't have to do that—"

She sloughed it off with a smile and a little motion. He continued to his bedroom, where he knew the laundry basket would be. It was gone. Sharona appeared behind him.

"I, um, did your laundry," she added, "and I put it away."

He smiled at her appreciatively, then opened the armoire and hung the police jacket back on its hanger, pulling the dustcover back over it. After he finished he looked at her.

"You didn't have to straighten up the place, Sharona. It was atrocious."

"Well, I wanted to. And no, your apartment is not atrocious. You should see my _house_."

It was a bit uncomfortable, to say the least. Adrian was grateful to Sharona for having straightened his apartment, but what had her motivation been? It was probably to soften the blow of her departure….

"Sharona—" he began to say.

"It's okay, Adrian. It didn't take very long…."

He approached her as she watched him cautiously. Without warning, he put his hand on her _bare_ upper arm. She stared at it, waiting for whatever was to occur. Had he really gotten that much better, for skin-to-skin contact to no longer bother him? Maybe there was hope—she shut the thought out of her mind, returning to the reality of the situation.

"Not _only_ did you bring me back to health, but you _cleaned_ my _house_. Sharona, I'm not going to be able to let you go, I hope you're aware of that." He chuckled nervously, to keep his comment a step below dead-seriousness.

She put her head down, for eye contact with her former boss was too difficult at the moment. All the emotion and intensity of his whole _being_ had always been conveyed in his eyes, and right now, to gaze into them, along with the addition of his hand to the mix made it… over-stimulation.

He noticed her negative response, so he removed his hand from her arm. The feeling of her skin warmed the palm of his hand, but he figured it was because of nervousness, that he had been sweating. He actually expected _her _to wipe her own arm from the contact. For some reason he didn't feel the urge to wash his hand, just a general exhaustion from the day's occurrences.

"Well, I'm going to get changed," he said, slipping past Sharona to go to his dresser. He pulled out a bagged pair of pajamas, his favorite maroon ones. The blonde left his room silently, heading for her own suitcase.

After they were both in their pajamas, Adrian left his bedroom to ensure that nothing was out of place. It was his custom, to make last checks of the locks, the chairs, the sinks, and the toilet paper supply. As he walked down the hallway toward the dining room, Sharona appeared around the corner, running into him, eliciting yips from both.

"I'm sorry," she muttered. "Do you have any sleeping pills, by any chance?"

"You can answer that question yourself," Adrian replied, half-laughing. "The only medicine I have is what you bought me."

"Then that's a no. It's too bad you don't have a television in the living room, it always helps me slee—"

She had done it _again_, now admitting her many sleepless nights since her move back to New Jersey.

"I-I have a television in my bedroom," he said, signaling to the open door of his room. "You can watch it for awhile, if you'd like."

"—But that's _your_ bedroom. That's _your_ bed."

"Captain Stottlemeyer sat on it before. That sort of thing doesn't—bother me…."

He was fibbing a bit with that statement, for the very next day he had had the comforter washed three—no, four—times, and _had _used it noticeably less since the occurrence.

"Okay, then. But _only_ if you don't mind, Adrian."

"No, I don't mind."

He turned around, heading for the bedroom, neglecting his last check of the lock. Eh, besides, he could specifically remember checking the lock _twice_ after entering the apartment. That was the main importance, the security of a locked home.

"Wait a second—" she said, grabbing the back of his pajama shirt. "You know what? Never mind; you need your sleep," she said. "You've had a tiring day."

He spun around to face her. She was preparing to retreat to the living room couch again.

"No, watch some television. In fact, I'll watch some with you."

"Now, are you serious about this? It's almost midnight, Adrian."

He nodded, smiling at her. She began following him again as he led her to his room.

Sharona waited until Adrian had taken his spot on the left side of the bed—well, _right_ side to him, now that he was on the bed—and stood by the bedside, watching him. Maybe he'd change his mind about letting her sit next to him, now that she was actually standing before him.

Instead, he patted the bed, studying her facial expressions. He grabbed the remote control and switched on the television as she climbed into bed and sat atop the comforter.

Once she was seated next to Adrian on such a… personal piece of furniture –most likely the very bed he had shared with Trudy—she felt a slight uneasiness, and looked at him to figure out his thoughts.

He was staring downwards, in her direction, at what appeared to be her thigh. Oh, the discomfort was only growing between them, minute by minute! Why was he being so… obvious about it? Well, she had been pretty obvious back at the hospital, when he had first gotten out of bed. Whatever slight or major change had occurred in Adrian these past five months, she found herself liking it. And the term 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' probably fit the situation as well.

She faced forward stiffly, attempting to focus her concentration on the program at hand. The interested stare from Adrian was giving her butterflies in her stomach, but she found herself actually_ liking_ the feeling and wanting more of it. As she attempted coyness, in her peripheral vision she could sense the detective slowly leaning in towards her…. Oh my, this can't really be happening to me…. and with _Adrian_, of all people. I'm married, for God's sakes; but he _knows_ that, so what can he—maybe I'll just pretend I don't see him….

* * *

Yes, I know it's short, but please review anyway:) 


	8. Good Times, Bad Times

Suddenly Adrian reached over and straightened the comforter by her leg. She jerked involuntarily, gaping over at him.

"I'm sorry…. It was wrinkled…." he managed to utter, as he flattened it down.

A laugh of relief came up in her throat, possessing her to giggle uncontrollably for a few minutes. Wow, had she misread that moment...

Adrian glanced at the television set, supposing it was something that she had seen on television that had caused her to start laughing. It was CNN. Probably not.

He started to chuckle quietly as well, reveling in her mood change. It still was unknown why she had begun laughing in the first place, but all that mattered was that she could still be happy when she was with him.

After Sharona's laughing fit ended, he handed her the remote control.

"What was _that_ all about?" he said, chuckling a bit himself.

"My laughing? Something just struck me funny, is all," she replied, taking the remote from him, the tips of her fingers brushing against his own. He pulled back reflexively, flashing her a look of shame.

It _was_ the old Adrian after all, she saw clearly. The relief on her face was obvious. He hadn't become some suave Valentino, set on seducing her into bed. Yes, that was the kind of man that she had always been attracted to, but Adrian… well, this absence had caused her to forget some of the more negative aspects of forming some kind of further relationship with him. Even so, it now came flooding back to her that (1) she was married, (2) he was still married—in his heart, at least, (3) he didn't like touching, and (4) he was unpredictable—wait, that wasn't such a bad thing. The new number four would have to be that he was obsessed with everything_ but_ her. And that bothered her.

She settled on "_I Love Lucy_," which Adrian reminisced as something he and Trudy used to watch as they lie in bed. It's just a coincidence. It's the only thing on right now, he told himself. I wonder what made her start laughing, he recalled. Was it something _I _did?

After watching several minutes of Sharona's uncomfortable fidgeting against the wooden headboard, Adrian fetched a horde of throw pillows to prop up behind them, and they settled into the show. It wasn't long, however, until Sharona fell asleep. Just like that. On _his _bed. Her upper body slipping down, _very_ slowly down, until she was going to be lying flat—flat on _his_ bed. Next to him.

He watched her as she slept, noticing her emotionless expression, the remnants of smeared eyeshadow still on her eyelids, the beginnings of a wrinkle on her forehead. She was _imperfect_, the smeared remnant of makeup on her face, the age appearing on her face, and her hair all awry from the pillows, _and_ she was lying unevenly, with one hand behind her head and one to her side. Even so, she still looked beautiful—wait, what was he thinking! It had been _so_ uncomfortable in the hospital, being eyed up by her, and now _he_ was doing it to her while she slept! He had always enjoyed her personality, her sense of humor, and now he was finding himself _attracted_ to her. But, it wasn't possible to be attracted to anyone but Trudy…. Well, at least Sharona couldn't see him…. He decided to fixate on her imperfections to get his mind off of his… other thoughts.

Waiting would be the best thing. It had only been twenty minutes since she came into the room; maybe she'd wake back up and go back out to the couch. But—he really didn't want her to leave—but he _did_ want her to leave—to the couch, that is. But she looked so comfortable, sleeping there, next to him….

He decided to watch the remainder of the episode. This was one of his favorite episodes, anyway, where Lucy and Ethel had to eat chocolate right off the conveyor belt, and stuff it down their aprons. How revolting that sounded now, how… unsanitary and dirty it all seemed. All those… germs on the conveyor belt…. Damn it, he couldn't enjoy anything anymore, even the most lighthearted and harmless of all things.

His gaze wandered around the room. How was she managing to sleep with the bright lamp on his nightstand throwing light throughout the room? He'd turn it off for now. It seemed inconceivable and highly nonsensical that any person could fall asleep in a well-lit room, and he had to put that thought out of his mind. Things _had_ to make sense to him, if he could help it. Sleep was only supposed to happen in the dark. Too many thoughts were floating around in his head right now. He clapped his hands quietly, and the lamp turned off.

It wasn't long after the darkness of the room enveloped Adrian himself in sleep. The TV remained on throughout the night, voices soft in the background. Neither Sharona nor Adrian awoke all night, sleeping soundly in their practically horizontal positions on top of the comforter.

The next morning, Adrian awoke to find himself face to face with Sharona. Her head was slightly propped up by pillows, as was his, but other than that, they were lying _flat _on _his_ bed _together_. And, to compound it all, he had draped an arm over her! He almost jerked and let out a yell, but somehow controlled his physical responses to this—predicament. Oh God, how had she gotten into his room? Had they done anything? When did he put his arm there? The initial panic dissipated quickly as he realized—she had wanted to watch television last night, and _she_ had fallen asleep first. He looked at the television set. The TV Land channel was still on, though the volume was almost low enough to be inaudible. He must have fallen asleep as well. Very slowly, he lifted his arm off of the sleeping nurse, watching her eyes carefully to avoid awakening her.

He slid out of bed quietly, walked over to the television and turned it off, and headed out into the hallway. Okay, I _need _to do my morning routine, whether Sharona's here or not. Just because someone's here doesn't mean I can change what I do every single day. I wonder if she knew I had my arm across her….

He boiled some water in a tea kettle and brushed his teeth with the hot water, then flossed his teeth and took a shower. It was great to be healthy again; he couldn't remember the last time he felt so… alive…. Apparently he had slept like a log, for he felt fully energized. He changed into a white t-shirt and lounge pants, his usual outfit after his shower, noting their fresh smell. Sharona wasn't lying when she said she'd done the laundry….

However, when he left the bathroom, he noticed that Sharona had still not awoken. It was only 9 am but then again, he had always had her come over to his place early to pick him up for an appointment or a case, and she was rarely late. Maybe she had gotten used to a different schedule back in Jersey….

He cooked a delicious breakfast of pancakes, sausage, and scrambled eggs, hoping the aroma would wake her up. Maybe it'd convince her that he wasn't as pitiful as first thought, so she could stay, knowing she didn't need to tend to his every whim.

Her cell phone rang, and she stirred in her sleep, opening it on the third ring. Apparently she had had the phone on her person when she had come into his bedroom last night. He heard the mattress squeak as she slid out of bed, and paced back and forth in the room with the phone to her ear.

"What? Oh my God…. No, Benjy, Grandma's gonna be okay. Have you seen her yet today?"

Sharona's voice was panicky and frightened. Adrian stood by the kitchen island, watching her nervously as she spoke to her son.

"Okay, when you _do_ head over, could you call me and update me on how she's doin'?" A pause, as her son responded.

"Benjy, don't be silly, it could be _much_ worse. It takes time to regain the ability to—okay, then, please call me after you see her. I love you; be careful."

Sharona hung up the phone and looked at Adrian. "I—don't believe it," she said. "Mom—my mom, sh-she can't talk." She stood up. "Oh, God, this is all my fault! I coulda—" The blonde shook her head, biting her lower lip.

"Oh, no, not now…." She quickly covered her mouth and dashed for Adrian's bathroom, leaving him standing in the hallway watching her race for _his_ _personal _bathroom.

llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

Oh, God, she's using _my_ bathroom… Wait? What was that sound? He began to walk towards the now-closed bathroom door. It sounded like gag… oh, God, NO!

He covered his ears and immediately fled from in front of the door, heading for his bedroom and shutting the door behind him. Feeling nauseated himself now, he grabbed the remote and switched on the television, turning it up to a very loud volume. Even so, he continued to cover his ears and hummed to drown out whatever sound could still be heard over the TV Land actors.

Emetrophobia was one of his lesser-known phobias because the… process didn't occur very often, but when it did it made him feel sick to his stomach as well. He was deathly afraid of the sound, and the image, and the smell, and the _feeling _of it. Come to think of it, he hadn't thrown up—oh, what a revolting word—for probably eight years, since after Trudy died. It had been so terrible, one of the worst things one could ever do…. How he had lived through that horrific experience was beyond him….

He jammed his fingers into his ears until he could hear ringing, and quickly released the hold to pull his shirt over his mouth and nose. No use getting those germs into his system. He could almost sense the tiny little particles of… well, you know—floating around in the air. Now the smell of the breakfast he had so painstakingly prepared made him nauseated, and so he inhaled through his mouth, blocking any sensation of smell from his nose. God, this is horrible…. Her, doing that…. In _my_ bathroom, of all places…. It'll never be clean again….

Panic rose in his throat, along with something else, and he reflexively swallowed it back down. What am I supposed to do? I can't help her, I just can't. She's an _adult; _she can handle it. Well, so am I though. But—_I'll_ get sick if I even take a step out there. I can't do it. I can't even help her…. I can't…. I can't do _anything_ for her! I can't comfort her, I can't support her, and I can't assist her….

He rocked back and forth on his bed with eyes shut, as "_Three's Company"_ blared in the background. This continued for probably fifteen minutes, until he heard another sound, one of an alarm. What was wrong _now_? He was frozen with fear. What if she had emerged from the bathroom? What if she hadn't? His mind was frazzled, utterly useless in its paralysis. It soon sunk in that he was of no practical use to her, and amidst all of it, his bathroom was being violated….

The bedroom door flew open and Sharona burst in, holding a bucket in one hand and looking quite flustered. The sudden appearance of the sick woman caused him to practically jump out of his skin. She was panicked and panting as she tried to speak.

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Yes, it's another cliffhanger! I promise it's not too profound though! Please review! 


	9. A Visit From Trudy

"Adrian, there's a fire in the kitchen!" she screamed, as she got away from the door, most likely to get sick again.

He leapt out of bed, turning off the television and holding his shirt over his nose and mouth. Crossing to the doorway, he saw the small inferno in the kitchen that had begun on the skillet he was cooking the scrambled eggs with. As Sharona sprinted back to the bathroom, he grabbed a fire extinguisher and gaped at its directions as the fire alarm continued to sound and the flames blazed.

After he attempted to measure the precise distance for ten minutes, Sharona ran back out to the kitchen and ripped the fire extinguisher out of his hands quickly. Without saying a word, she rapidly extinguished the fire, handed the item back to Adrian, and then raced back to the bathroom within a matter of seconds. Adrian could only gape at the charred skillet and down the hall to the bathroom, realizing how stupid he had just seemed. Sharona had been depending on him to put the fire out, and all he could do was waste time.

Not only could he not aid her in her sickness; he couldn't even put out a skillet fire. And now she was violating his bathroom again, and all he could do was be disgusted—not sympathetic, not understanding, just worried about his own possessions. Well, the bathroom wasn't even his; he was renting it. Would he _ever_ get over his phobias and obsessions? His shoulders slumped as he turned away from the waning smoke. How had he managed to survive on his own the past five months?

A loud thumping was heard on his front door, and he raced over to it to see who it could possibly be. It was a firefighter, he could see in the peephole.

He opened the door, sighing with relief. "Don't worry, the fire is out," he said, signaling towards the kitchen. "But Sh—" he pointed down the hallway at the bathroom door –"she's—Sharona's sick."

"What's wrong with her? Did she get burned?"

"No, she's—" he made a motion in front of his mouth. "She's—you know… uhm…."

"I'm not sure I understand what you're trying to say."

"She's—" he made the signal again, waving his hands in front of his mouth.

The man could only shake his head with confusion.

"She's….throwing up! Okay, I said it!" He immediately covered his face with his hand and ran into the kitchen, grabbing some Lysol cleaner and spraying it heavily in the air until he began coughing.

"What the hell are you doing, buddy?" the firefighter asked, backing out of the house.

"Just—the air—there's… contamination…."

The firefighter promptly departed, slamming the door in the process, and Adrian was left to the sound of the toilet flushing and the sink running in the bathroom.

A sickly Sharona emerged from the bathroom soon afterwards. He could only gape at the blonde woman and retreat back into the kitchen, his hands remaining near his face-level. Her hair was matted to her head and her pale face was soaking wet. Maybe she had splashed some water on her face or something, he hoped. It looked like she'd been crying, for her eyes were bloodshot and misty. She was still wearing her pajamas, which were soaked with sweat, _that_ he could tell. Her face was so white and waxen and she looked utterly exhausted and just… sad….

Coughing from the overpowering odor of the Lysol, he grabbed a potholder and threw the skillets' breakfast contents into the garbage disposal. Sharona didn't come into the kitchen, thank goodness. She'd probably become sick again from the sheer strength of the cleaner. The garbage disposal ground up the material, and he rinsed the remnants into the hole as well, placing the rinsed-off skillets into the dishwasher. He just had to get all smells out of his house, except for the smell of the Lysol, of course. Later on he would throw out the burnt pan; it was useless now.

"Adrian?"

It was Sharona. He really didn't want to see her right now. She had this… cloud of germs around her right now. Disgusting putrid sick germs. And he was embarrassed of himself. She, in her sickly state, had had to extinguish the fire she had hoped Adrian would have handled. His face turned crimson.

"What?" he replied, remaining frozen in place in front of the dishwasher.

"Is everything okay in here? Did the fire mess anything up?"

He looked over at the stove, noticing no difference in its appearance. He looked back at the skillet, with its melted Teflon.

"No, I'll just have to buy a new skillet, is all," he mumbled, averting his eyes.

"That's good," she said. "I'm really sorry about all this... Ya know though, I think it was a fluke, because I feel a lot better now. Not perfect, but, ehh—"

"That's good," Adrian responded quickly. He just had to worry incessantly about the bathroom. "—and the bathroom?" he added afterwards.

Her change in expression, although subtle, conveyed a million things to the detective, including disappointment and dismay over his response. He knew immediately he had to backtrack, to ask about her again, to show concern over her condition.

"So, you're feeling bett—" he began to say, but Sharona cut him off.

"I'm gonna clean your bathroom, and then I'm going to go to a hotel. Where do you keep your junk rags?" She was still in the hallway, thank goodness.

"Why are you going t—_junk_ rags?"

"Ya know, rags you'll just throw out. I want to use something disposable."

"You don't have to do—" Oh, he was only kidding himself, accepting responsibility to clean up. She _had _to clean up the room, or else he'd _never_ go in there again.

"—any other rooms," he finished the sentence. "Just the bathroom." He reached under the sink and grabbed a few small flimsy towels. Without looking into the hallway, he flung the towels onto the floor and walked back over to the sink.

He couldn't even look at her, for his embarrassment was still heavily apparent, mixed with guilt. Guilt over his comments. Guilt from making her feel guilty about her decisions. Guilt over his uselessness during the fire, during her sickness. It overpowered him, dizzying him as he stare at the floor in despair.

"Okay," Sharona replied. There was a silence, and then the bathroom door shut. He was left with his thoughts.

"What the hell am I supposed to do now?" he asked no one in particular. I'm too… sickened to eat, I can't go in the living room, and I can't use the restroom. I'd better just go back to the bedroom….

Once he returned to the bedroom, he stripped the comforter and sheets off the bed and folded them into a pile in the laundry basket. I'll probably never use that comforter again. Not only was someone else on it, but she…. has some kind of sick germ. He quickly changed into his usual outfit, a dress shirt and brown pants, but didn't feel any better at his neater appearance.

He was stricken with panic and fear and nausea and all these terrible feelings compounded onto him. He was probably going to get sick too, now, just when he was beginning to recover from pneumonia…. Maybe Sharona shouldn't have returned, to contaminate his bathroom and couch and everything else she touched, or breathed near or— but how could he say that? She had returned specifically _because_ he was ill. Maybe he didn't deserve her, after all….

Maybe he deserved to be alone. He couldn't support her, couldn't aid her in sickness or emergency, and he couldn't let her off the hook. All she had done during her return was help him: doing his laundry, helping him recover from his sickness, saving his apartment from burning to the ground….. Let's see, what had he done for her? He let her stay at his place, but that was a small price to pay. He… made her feel guilty for not being able to stay, for getting remarried. He hid in his bedroom while she was…. Shaking his head, he sat at the end of the bed, his hands on his knees.

I'll bet if Trudy were still alive, she'd probably leave me. I'm so—I can't do anything good for anybody. I can't even take care of _myself_, landing myself in the hospital with pneumonia for days on end. He put his head in his hands and stared down at the floor, feeling his eyes tingle.

"Adrian," he heard. The voice of Trudy. He opened his eyes, scanning the room around him. Trudy stood by the head of the bed, a concerned expression on her face. Around her shown a halo of light; her presence was a delight to his eyes, all of his senses, in fact. His uneasy nausea ceased, but the fear and guilt remained within him.

"It's—Sharona," he said, bowing his head. "She's sick. Her mother's ill. She's… miserable. I—I don't know what to do. I can't do an—"

Trudy walked over to him, smiling softly, and he reached for her hands and held them in his own.

"There's only one thing you _can_ do," she told him. "You have to let her go, let her move on with her life."

"—But—why?"

"All these emotions are hurting her, Adrian."

"So it's because of me that she's sick?" He was distraught at the mere thought, and swallowed loudly.

"Oh, sweetheart, it's not your fault. She—has a lot of stressful things going on in her life now, with her mother, her husband and her son. She's feeling guilty, blaming herself for everything that's been going wrong."

"That's probably my fault… but why do I have to let her—move on?" He could feel his voice breaking.

"Oh, dear Adrian—it's the only way she'll truly be at peace with herself. Just as I want _you_ to be, happy and moving on with _your_ life."

"I'll never leave you. I would never do that to you," he murmured huskily.

"You're not leaving me by moving on," Trudy replied. "You're—allowing yourself to live, to enjoy life again. I want you to be happy again, Adrian."

"—I… can't let you go, Trudy," he cried.

"Adrian, you have to let Sharona choose her _own_ path. Her family needs her right now. Maybe she'll return to you someday. Maybe she won't. You have to let her decide."

His eyes filled up with tears, and he allowed them to stream down his face as the vision of his wife faded before his eyes.

"—but I… can't do th—Please don't leave, Trudy; I need you so much," he sobbed, as she disappeared from view. He sunk to the floor, his head in his hands. He was going to have to let Sharona go? He could feel his heart breaking and sinking to the pit of his stomach, filling him with dread and indecision.

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Please tell me what you think... I'll have the next chapter up sometime this weekend! 


	10. The Decision

A couple of minutes later, Sharona entered the room. Seeing him on the floor, she ran over to him and put her hand on his shoulder.

"Adrian—are you alright?" she asked, full of concern.

He looked up at her through teary eyes.

"I'm—fine. How are you feeling?"

"Much better now. Your bathroom is completely clean, I _promise_ you. I am so sorry about that; if I would have known that was going to happen, I would have stayed somewhere else…. You _sure_ you're alright?"

He stood up slowly, still somewhat guarded from her recent… emesis. She was _apologizing_ to him for being sick, something she couldn't even help…. Sharona left the room first, walking into the kitchen, and he followed her. The Lysol had cleared quite well; there was just a hint of it wafting in the air.

"Sharona," he heard himself say to her. Oh, God, this was going to be so hard. He couldn't imagine her gone from his life again, indefinitely.

"Yes?" she turned around, watching him. He had to say it _now_, or else he'd _never_ say it.

"I, uhm… I want you to be happy, Sharona. I don't want you to feel… guilty any more about… leaving, and I'm sorry that I made you feel guilty…. I—" his voice was breaking up again, but he caught it. That kind of emotion was not allowed to surface. "I—want you to go back to New Jersey, and… forget all about me. You need to… be with your family; they need you—" He fell silent, and looked down at the floor, wringing his hands nervously. He had done it. He had told her all he needed to tell her without the aid of note cards, even. He couldn't smile though. Probably never would again.

Her jaw dropped. She stared at him in stunned silence. Tears welled up in her eyes. What had come over Adrian suddenly, to make him so… accepting and understanding of her situation? This act of selflessness by her self-absorbed boss shocked her to no end, and she just stood there, trying to comprehend what she had just heard. He had said such a kind, understanding, and noble thing that it was impossible for her to respond right away.

He looked up again to see her staring at him, eyes watering and lips trembling. His eyes were watering as well, so he rubbed them with his hands to remove the threat of tears. He let his hands fall limply to his sides, and, without another thought, wiped the moisture off on his good pants.

All of a sudden Sharona advanced forward and embraced him tightly and completely, sobbing quietly into his shirt. Forgetting all about the earlier turn of events, he hugged her back, burying his face in her hair as tears again filled his eyes.

"Do you really mean that, Adrian?" she said, muffled in his chest.

"Yes," he replied helplessly. He swallowed down the sobs that threatened to commence, both dreading and awaiting her response.

She slowly leaned back from the hug, looking up into his eyes, which were misty with tears. "I could never… forget you, Adrian," she said, her voice racked with sobs. "I don't know how to say—well, what I'm tryin' to say is—I may… return to you someday, as soon as I get my own life straightened out. It's—been so hard for m—"

"I know," he replied, feeling a tear sliding down his cheek. "Please, just g—go to them—they need you more than I do." He removed one hand from her back and wiped the tear away.

"Oh, I wish things would have turned out differently," she cried, looking up at him. "Then I could stay here, with you. Believe me, I'd rather it have happened that way; I was happy here…. But it didn't, and I have to live with that every day, and I have to try to make do with what I've been dealt, and—"

All of a sudden, Adrian cupped his hand behind her head, and closed his eyes as he gently kissed her forehead. Before she could respond, he pulled away from the embrace and turned around to face the kitchen window, letting the tears flow freely now as he bent over the sink.

"I'll miss you, Sharona," he murmured tearfully, as he gazed at the blue sky outside. It was too hard to look at her now. He had actually kissed her.

She was sobbing openly now; he could hear it. He remained where he was, watching his tears drip into the basin of the sink.

"I'll miss you too, Adrian," she sobbed. He stayed turned away from her, too terrified and tearful to let her see his face again. Hoping to block out the sound of his own sobbing, he turned on the spigot, rinsing out the basin of the sink. A few minutes passed, he heard the front door shut, and when he finally shut off the taps and turned around, she was gone.

He had to let her go. He had to let her… move on. And he had let her do just that. She had saved his life, made him healthy again, and he had to do the same for her, as hard as it was for him to do. All he wanted was for her to be happy, healthy, comfortable—things he was not accustomed to feeling. She had always been so good to him, and she deserved to be happy. Just as Trudy said that _he_ deserved to be, but he still didn't believe it.

Maybe, just maybe, she'd return to him someday. He watched her through the blinds of his living room window as she loaded her luggage into the trunk of a cab. Tears streamed down his face, and he let them drip onto the floor. Maybe.

* * *

The End

I thought that was the proper place to stop with this story. I guess it's more of my own better send-off for Sharona, a less sudden (and maybe more satisfying) severance. What did you think? Please let me know. I actually have not begun to write any other stories, so do you have any ideas I could play around with? I may even write a continuation to this story, but only if I get some feedback to do so. But for now, I have writer's block now, and I need all the help I can get. And please review this story. Reviews really honestly do encourage me to write. --Amy


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